


Safe House

by thesewarmstars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Bottom Snape, Chan, Frottage, Hogwarts Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-03
Updated: 2007-09-08
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 40
Words: 55,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1648583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesewarmstars/pseuds/thesewarmstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When both their lives are in (greater than usual) danger, Harry and Snape must live together in a secret location all summer for their own safety.  How will they survive it?  Simple—they’ll just have to get to know each other.</p><p>Takes place after OotP, ignore HBP and DH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Double Agents

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first HP fic ever, so I’m sure I’m writing all the clichés without realizing it. Try not to get too annoyed with beginner mistakes. No beta, all mistakes are my own.

Severus Snape closed his eyes for a moment, silently thanking Merlin that the school year was finally over. The little imps had left three days ago, and he would finally be able to have a few moments peace.

He knew the Dark Lord was calling him even before the mark on his arm began to burn. The dirty, loathsome, _evil_ feeling with which he was all too familiar flooded through him and his eyes sprang open. He instantly rose from the desk in his private quarters and stepped into the fireplace to floo to a location from which he could apparate.

When he arrived in the forest clearing, the first thing he noticed was that his fellow Death Eaters were not present—not a full meeting, then. He was to have a private audience with the Dark Lord.

The second thing he noticed, only a moment later, was the Dark Lord himself. He stood no more than ten feet away, and had his wand pointed directly at Snape’s heart. At the realization of this, the heart in question did not ‘skip a beat’ as those of many other men might have done. 

Snape simply raised an eyebrow. “My Lord?”

Anger flashed in the other man’s eyes at hearing this. “You may drop the charade now. I know where your true allegiances lie,” he almost hissed, his voice conveying the threat behind his words.

“My only allegiance is to you, my Lord,” Snape replied calmly. He did not bother reaching for his wand. He knew it would not help him now.

“Do not insult me with further lies! I know you have been teaching the boy to close his mind to me. Luckily, you have thus far been unsuccessful, but that does not lessen the gravity of your betrayal.” The dark wizard took a menacing step toward Snape.

Snape held his ground. “Of course I have been unsuccessful. I know you wish to use your connection with the boy and would never hinder it, my Lord.”

“No more lies, I said! You may stop playing your part. You may also stop everything else!” he screamed with his usual melodramatic flair.

While the Dark Lord drew a breath with which to voice his curse, Snape carefully brushed his hand over one of the many buttons down the front of his robes and whispered, “Gumdrop.” Snape had no time to be grateful for the password-protected portkey Dumbledore had turned his button into before he was jerked from the clearing and came to an abrupt stop in the headmaster’s office.

“Good evening, Severus,” Dumbledore said as he looked up. His customary offer of a cup of tea or something sweet was instantly foregone and he simply reached into a desk drawer and handed Snape a piece of parchment.

Without looking at the folded piece of parchment now in his hands, Snape said, “It seems I have been found out, Headmaster.” Dumbledore nodded for him to continue. “He knew about the occlumency lessons. As I understand it, only those in the Order are privy to that knowledge. You have a leak.”

Dumbledore looked down at his desk for a few seconds, then raised his gaze to meet Snape’s eyes. “If that is the case, you are no longer safe here. Apparate to the coordinates you see on the parchment and stay there until further notice. Until such time, communication will not be possible.”

Snape unfolded the parchment and saw apparition coordinates written in a hand he did not recognize. He nodded once and left the office. Once outside Hogwarts' wards, he disappeared with a crack into the night.


	2. Company

The room he arrived in was dimly lit, but soon the glow began to increase until the place was flooded with a pleasant light. He quickly performed several spells to check for the presence of others or of dark magic, but found neither. It was not that Snape didn’t trust Dumbledore—behavior of this nature had simply become habit.

Satisfied that his life was in no immediate danger, he took in his surroundings. He stood in the middle of a fair-sized room. The light was coming from several orbs hovering near the ceiling. There was a fireplace and two sofas directly in front of him, and the wall to his left was obstructed by a large, almost completely filled, bookcase. Despite the slight chill, which he imagined would be easily rectified by use of the fireplace, the room had a safe, cozy feel.

To his right was a doorway. Snape lit the fire with a flick of his wand and stepped through the doorway to find himself in a small kitchen. He walked right through the kitchen, as it held little interest at the moment, and into a poorly lit hallway. 

Three doors led off the hallway—two on the left, and one on the right. Further investigation revealed two bedrooms, the one on the right slightly larger, and a bathroom. With no hesitation for debate whatsoever, he went into the larger bedroom and removed his outer cloak.

When he opened the wardrobe to hang it, he was surprised to see some of his other clothing already there. He quickly looked around the room, searching for other such anomalies. Against the far wall, he noticed a table and cabinet. On the table sat his favorite of his personal cauldrons and the cabinet appeared to be well stocked with potion-making ingredients and tools. Perhaps his compulsory stay here would not be so unbearable. He would have to thank the headmaster when next they met.

All in all, he decided, this safe house was not entirely unpleasant. Small, of course, but adequate.

As his choices of activity were very limited, Snape made himself a cup of tea and chose a book from the shelf in the sitting room. He settled into one of the soft, brown leather couches. He noticed that the customary vessel of floo powder was absent from the fireplace before him. It presumably was not connected to the floo network.

He had opened his book to the first page and read one sentence when he heard the unmistakable sound of an apparition behind him. Before the new arrival had time to recover from his journey, Snape had risen and drawn his wand.

“Relax, Professor. I’m not going to hex you or anything.”

“Mister Potter,” was all the greeting Snape gave. He felt lowering his wand was welcome enough.

Potter was looking around the room with unmasked curiosity and did not seem to have any intention of explaining his sudden arrival. 

“What is this place?” he asked.

“It is a safe house,” Snape replied. “Please explain your presence in it.”

“Dumbledore sent me. I’m supposed to stay here for the rest of the summer. He told me you were here…I figured you knew I was coming,” Potter said, beginning to sound slightly nervous.

“My departure was rather hasty. There was little time for story-telling.” Though, he thought, there surely would have been time to mention Potter would be coming.

“Mine was too, actually. All he told me was you were here, that you’d been found out by Voldemort,” Potter said.

Snape’s eyes flared. “Do not invoke the Dark Lord’s name,” he warned.

“Fine. You-Know-Who,” replied Potter, shrugging his shoulders. “Oh, I almost forgot. He said to give this to you,” he added, and handed a rolled piece of parchment to his professor.

Wasting no time, Snape unrolled the parchment and sat on the sofa to read it.  
 __

_Severus,_

_I hope you have found everything to your satisfaction. The rooms are humble, but under a Fidelius charm. Other measures have also been taken to ensure no one will ever discover them, so you may rest assured._

_Harry will be coming to stay for the remainder of the summer. Alas, his continued presence with his muggle family is no longer possible. I will not elaborate—the tale is Harry’s to tell at his discretion._

_Someone will be sent to escort Harry back to school at the end of the summer. At that time, I will determine whether it is safe for you to return to Hogwarts as well. Until then, Harry and yourself will be confined to the safe house. I know you will use the time wisely. Might I suggest continued occlumency lessons? You also may wish to tutor him in his regular school subjects, against which I would have no objection._

_Have a lovely summer,_

_Albus_

__  
If he had not known the man for so long, Snape might have been angry. As it was, he felt only mild irritation at the implication that he would not find having Potter there for the entire summer completely insufferable. Just when he had rid himself of all the little vermin, to suggest he would want to tutor Potter, the worst of them all! As if the boy had any appreciable capacity to learn anyway. He sighed inwardly. Only Albus.

He noticed the boy anxiously looking from him to the letter and back again, presumably waiting to hear what the headmaster had said. Had he taken no notice of the letter’s addressee?

“Good night, Mr. Potter. I am retiring,” Snape said, and stalked straight to his room.

He heard a hesitant, “Err, good night, Professor,” behind him.


	3. Boredom

The next morning, Snape woke dreading spending the day with the boy. Very quietly, he washed, dressed, and went out to the sitting room. 

He needn’t have worried. Potter was nowhere to be seen. Snape idly hoped he would stick to his room the entire summer, but dismissed it as a fanciful wish.

He looked at the cup of tea he’d never had the chance to drink the night before sitting cold on the couch and his disdain grew. 

He emptied the cup—“ _Evanesco_ ”—and made some fresh. He discovered the kitchen pantry was stocked satisfyingly well, with everything inside under preservation charms, and made some toast as well. He spent the morning as he had intended to spend the evening—reading in front of the fire.

Around teatime, he heard movement from the kitchen. He did not look up from his book.

Eventually, the noise retreated back down the hall where it belonged.

Later, Snape put his book aside in favor of supper. He had never enjoyed dining in the Great Hall amidst the mischief and mayhem and took pleasure, such as it was, in his solitary meal. He spent the evening brewing a few potions that were useful to have around, everyday things like a mild pain potion for headaches and such, Calming Draught, and Pepper Up. They were simple potions, not the kind that required exacting attention or careful application of potion-making theory that got him excited, but the action was nonetheless familiar and calming.

The next few days passed in much the same way. He caught only fleeting glances of his housemate—prisonmate, he mentally corrected—which suited him fine. He read his books and drank his tea and brewed his potions. On the third day, he made Veritaserum on a whim, just to give himself some mental stimulation. Merlin only knew what Potter did, shut up in his room all day, coming out only to go to the bathroom or the kitchen.

Not that Snape cared, it was fine with him.

 

On the fifth day, Potter ventured into the sitting room.

“What are you doing, Professor?”

Snape raised an eyebrow. He had an open book in his hands, what did the insufferable brat think he was doing?

“Reading,” he finally replied, his thought evident in his tone.

“Oh,” said Potter quietly, nodding to his lap. He lifted his head, looked around the room a bit, looked back at his lap, and sighed.

“Aren’t you bored, Professor?”

“As you can see, I have an entire wall of books to occupy my thoughts. I also have potion supplies in my room—you are welcome to use them if you can assure me nothing will unexpectedly explode,” Snape offered with a smirk. 

Potter just looked at him. 

“I thought not.”

“Surely even you won’t be satisfied spending the next ten weeks doing nothing but eating, sleeping, reading, and brewing,” Potter insisted.

“Dumbledore suggested I tutor you in your studies. I shall do so if you wish,” he replied, knowing full well Potter would want nothing of the sort.

Potter seemed to simply ignore that, and instead asked, “How did Volde—,” he was stopped with a menacing glare, “—You-Know-Who find out you were spying?”

“I am uncertain. He knew of our occlumency lessons, but who told him I do not know.”

“Ah.” Potter looked around the room a little more and at his lap a few times. Snape went back to his book. 

“I guess I’ll leave you to it then,” Potter said and went back to his room. Snape thought he closed the door with more force than was necessary, but didn’t really care.

 

On the sixth day, Potter came out around teatime with a determined look on his face. No good could come of that.

“Professor, I want to ask you something.” He waited for Snape to respond, but no reply was forthcoming. He sighed.

“I wondered if you were serious about doing the lessons. Obviously, I never really caught on to the whole occlumency thing and I’d like to try again. If that’s okay, I mean.”

Snape wondered a bit at his subdued, almost apologetic manner, but not for long. “You learned next to nothing over the course of the entire year, why should now be any different? I will not waste my time in a vain attempt to teach you serious skills simply to alleviate your boredom.”

Potter shook his head. “No, it’s not like that. I really want to learn it. I’m protected from…You-Know-Who here, that’s what Dumbledore said, and my scar hasn’t hurt and we haven’t been in each other’s heads at all. I just…don’t want it to come back when I leave.” Potter seemed to be addressing his shoes. 

“Mr. Potter, you will look at me when you speak to me.” He waited for the boy to look up before he continued. “As for occlumency, I will consent to resume your lessons. As much as I may wish not to do so, it is of the utmost importance that you learn to close your mind. Tomorrow, ten o’clock,” he said and resumed his reading. After a moment, Potter seemed to finally understand the conversation was at an end and returned to his room.


	4. Occlumency Lessons

At two minutes to ten, Potter shuffled into the sitting room. Snape hid his surprise, but he couldn’t remember Potter ever being on time for anything, much less early.

“I see you have learned to read a clock, Mr. Potter. Congratulations.” Potter gave no indication he had even heard him.

“I’m ready whenever you are, sir.”

“Very well— _Legilimens_ ,” Snape said, his wand raised. He saw flashes of several of Potter’s memories. Many he had seen before, a few he had not. He saw a fat boy running after a young Potter with a baseball bat, Potter and Chang standing very close and leaning closer, Mr. Diggory falling to the ground and a flash of green light, Sirius Black falling through the veil of death at the ministry and Potter screaming after him with all his soul—he heard a sob and his concentration faltered.

“There you are, Mr. Potter, simply startle the Dark Lord out of your mind by breaking down and crying. I’m sure that will do the trick.” He expected Potter to get angry, to yell and scream as he was wont to do, but he just stayed where he was. He had fallen to his knees at some point during the spell and knelt there, looking at the ground.

Slowly, he raised his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this, professor.”

“Why ever not, Mr. Potter? It was your request.”

“It’s just that…I just…I don’t want to have to think about that anymore. I get enough of it in my nightmares,” Potter said quietly and gave a small shudder.

“If you learned to close your mind, I could not force you to think about things you do not wish to think about.” Snape paused. “I thought you said you were no longer having the nightmares?”

“Not Voldem—Sorry, Professor. Not _Dark Lord_ -induced ones. But I still have nightmares every night. Why can’t bad things just be over once they’re over?” The boy seemed to trail off, talking to himself.

“You must learn to occlude your mind. It is imperative.”

“But I don’t know how!” he said, looking somewhat desperate. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I try to imagine that I have a big wall around the memories I don’t want you to see, but it just seems to draw you there faster. I don’t know what else to do!”

Snape silently chastised himself as he realized Potter was going about this all wrong, and it was at least partially his fault for never having told him how to go about it properly.

“Sometimes walls can be useful, if they are strong enough— _very_ strong. But, as you said, walls will indicate to an intruder that you are hiding something. Do not focus on trying to _hide_ memories you wish to keep private. Instead, focus only on those remaining, focus on the image of yourself you wish to project. Create a persona for yourself that gives your enemy no tools with which to torment you.”

Potter was looking at him with wide eyes. “Wow, I can’t believe it. That actually made sense!” he said with a sheepish smile. 

“We shall begin again. Prepare yourself— _Legilimens_.” This time, Snape saw a different set of memories. They felt forced, and he attempted to push past them. He saw Potter flying high above the Quidditch pitch, studying at the library, eating in the Great Hall with Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley…and then he felt something give…and he saw Vernon Dursley’s fist flying toward Potter, Bellatrix Lestrange cursing Black before he falls through the veil. He voluntarily pulled out of Potter’s mind.

The boy was back on his knees, shaking a little. Snape almost pitied him.

“That concludes our lesson for the day. You seem to have successfully grasped the concept I was trying to impart to you. However, it will require much practice before it will feel natural to someone attempting to invade your mind.”

Potter was giving him a very odd look, and he realized he’d actually complimented the little brat.

“Erm, thanks, Professor.” Snape did not reply.

He conjured a cup of tea for himself and Potter and they sat on opposite sofas, quietly sipping. When it seemed Potter had recovered sufficiently, Snape attempted to satisfy his curiosity.

“So why is it that you find yourself unable to remain and your aunt and uncle’s? Have they forbidden you to autograph your fan mail?”

Potter looked up sharply. “I don’t really wanna talk about it, sir.” He quickly squeezed his eyes closed and turned his head to the side.

“Relax, Mr. Potter. I will not attempt to break into your mind without consent simply to satisfy my curiosity.”

Potter turned back to him and cocked his head to the side. “Really?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Of course not.”

The boy looked quite relieved to hear it and visibly relaxed.

After a moment, he asked, “Did you learn to be such a good occlumens because you had to to spy for the Order, or were you already good at it?”

“Do not expect that I will answer your inquiries when you do not answer mine. Conversation must be reciprocal.”

A faint blush crept up to Potter’s cheeks. “Yeah, yeah I know. It’s just…you know. Do you think we could start…smaller?”

Snape tensed a bit, though not visibly. “Certainly.”


	5. Getting to Know You

Potter fiddled with his teacup. 

Snape broke the silence. “It was your desire to ‘start smaller,’ Mr. Potter. How do you wish to proceed?”

“Err, I suppose we could take turns, you know. Ask each other questions.”

“Very well. I am waiting.” Snape couldn’t believe he was agreeing to this. He must have been more bored than he thought.

“Me start? Okay, well. Something small,” he mumbled to his hands, which were folded in his lap. 

“Mr. Potter, I thought I requested that you look at me when you speak to me.” He looked up.

“Right. Okay, so what’s your favorite color?”

Snape was caught off-guard by this question and took a split-second to consider. “I do not have one,” he replied. 

“What do you mean?” Potter asked immediately.

“You indicated we were to alternate questions. It is not your turn. I feel I have adequately answered the question and will say no more. You may be assured of the truthfulness of any answer I give. I will expect the same.”

He waited for Potter to nod before he continued. “What is your favorite subject at school?”

“I don’t suppose I really have a favorite. I like everything except Divination and History of Magic. And I’m not wild about Herbology. But now that we’ve done OWLs, I won’t have to take those anymore.”

Snape was a bit surprised by that. “ _Everything_ except those? Even Potions?” he asked, disbelieving.

Harry gave a small smirk. “I feel I have adequately answered the question. You may be assured of the truthfulness of my answer.”

Snape almost laughed at that, but was careful not to let the boy see. “Very well. I will take you at your word.”

“Would you really prefer to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts? You seem so devoted to Potions.”

“No, I don’t believe I would.” At the boy’s questioning look, he volunteered, “The Dark Lord instructed me to request the position. He felt I could be…influential.”

“So how is it you are able to sneak about the castle so well? You do not seem the stealthy type.”

Potter looked hesitant to answer. 

“Let me remind you that we agreed to answer one another truthfully. Also remember that as school is not in session, I cannot take points or give you detention, as much as I might wish to.”

That seemed to comfort the boy. “Well, I have an invisibility cloak. It was my dad’s.”

At the mention of Potter, Sr., the boy seemed to recoil as if he expected Snape to strike out. Snape simply nodded and Potter relaxed again.

“Do you have anything that used to be your dad’s? You know, something special?”

Emotion showed in Snape’s eyes for the briefest moment, then disappeared. “No. No, I do not,” he said sharply. “I think we’ve gotten to know one another well enough for one day. It is time for supper.” And with that, he stood up and swept into the kitchen.

 

The next morning at ten o’clock, Potter walked into the sitting room expectantly. 

“It would be quite a strain on the mind to engage in occlumency lessons every day, if that is what you are waiting for. Might I propose occlumency every other day, with a lesson in one of your regular subjects on the off days?”

“Um, okay, sure. What do you think we should do today?” Potter asked. “No wait, I know. Potions, of course.”

“That is certainly acceptable to me. Follow me.” Snape led him through the kitchen and into his personal room where all the potion supplies were.

“Was this stuff just here waiting for you? I found some of my favorite things in my room as well.”

Snape did not think that question actually required and answer. Instead, he was deciding on an assignment. “You will attempt to brew a Dreamless Sleep potion. Perhaps since you have some motivation to make it properly, you will be able to succeed.” When the boy started to smile, he quickly added, “Dreamless Sleep is a wonderful potion, and can give much needed relief, but only temporarily. It will have adverse affects if taken every night. You must never take it more than two consecutive nights, and refrain from taking it for at least three nights in between.”

Potter’s countenance fell somewhat at this, but he still seemed excited about the potion. Rather than writing out the directions, Snape recited them from memory straight through once. However, he was aware that not many, much less Potter, would be able to recall the instructions after having heard them once and walked him through the entire process. 

The potion came out unexpectedly well, though the boomslang skin had not been chopped as finely as it ought. This caused the potion to come out slightly darker than it should have, and he warned Potter that this would most likely cause him to awaken after only six hours of dreamless sleep, rather than the usual eight, but that he could still take it if he wished.

“No problem, six hours of dreamless sleep is way better than none,” Potter said as he capped the bottle and stored it in his room. When he came back out, he found Snape in the sitting room again. 

After hesitating a bit, he said, “I asked the last question yesterday, sir, so it’s your turn.” He hastily added, “Unless you don’t want to anymore, of course.”

“I am willing to oblige you. To what were you referring when you said you found some of your favorite things in your room?”

“Oh, just little things. My favorite pair of socks, the jumper Mrs. Weasley gave me last Christmas…” he trailed off.

Snape knew he was not fully answering and glared at him until he spoke again.

“And an album Hagrid gave me a long time ago with pictures of my mum and dad. There’re a couple with Sirius in there, too.” Snape nodded to show that he was now satisfied with the answer.

“This isn’t my question, okay? I was wondering, is it okay for me to ask you anything about your family, or is that totally off limits? Yesterday, I kind of got the impression…you know.”

Snape was surprised by this, to say the least. In the past, he had no doubt, the boy would have just asked anything he wanted. He seemed to have lost his confidence lately. It was certainly not an unpleasant turn of events, but it seemed so unlike Potter.

“I do not recall us setting any limits. As this was little game was your idea, it is up to you. I will set no limits if you do not.”

Potter seemed to struggle for a few seconds, trying to decide. “Yeah, okay. No limits then.” He paused to think of a question.

“Do you ever have nightmares, sir?”

Snape had been expecting a question about his family. How strange. “No. I do not dream.” Potter’s eyebrows went up. Snape answered the unasked question—“At all.”


	6. Underground

The next day, Potter did not immediately sit on the couch to await his lesson. Instead, he stood gazing up at the high window in the sitting room—the only window in the safe house—and said, “Looks like rain.”

“It matters not—that window is enchanted,” Snape informed him.

Potter seemed surprised to hear this. “How do you know?”

“Can you not feel it? We are far underground.”

“No, I had no idea,” Potter murmured, still watching the clouds through the window.

“Do you intend to stand there gaping all day, or shall we begin?”

“Sorry, sir,” Potter answered, making his was over to the sofa. “I’m ready now.”

“ _Legilimens_.” Snape saw several flashes of memories that felt as if they were being flung at him. Potter sitting in History of Magic about to nod off, lying in the grass near the Black Lake, being congratulated after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament…then things seemed to get hazy for a moment and he saw a hulking shape in a dark room, pinning someone to the wall. The large man moved slightly and Snape saw Potter, his face shoved into the wall as the man—his uncle, Snape thought—reached around to unbutton the boy’s trousers.

This time the noise that startled Snape out of Potter’s mind was his own soft gasp. Potter, he saw, had turned and buried his face in the couch. Snape had no idea what to say. 

So he opted to ignore it, for the time being. “As I said in our last lesson, you have the idea, but the persona you project still feels very forced. You must practice.” He waited for the boy to remove his face from the couch cushion, but it seemed he was content to stay where he was.

“My turn, I believe,” Snape said. “What would you wish to be doing now, were you not confined to this place?”

Potter was obviously grateful for the change in subject. He immediately answered, “Fly, I’d want to fly. Play Quidditch, maybe, but definitely fly. Did you ever play Quidditch when you were at school?”

“In my sixth year. I was Slytherin’s last resort for a Keeper. Luckily, someone better came along the next year and I was relieved of my position,” Snape replied. “Whom do you miss the most of your many little friends and adoring fans, as you are stuck down here all alone?”

Potter considered for a moment. “This is going to sound ridiculous, but I miss Hedwig. Dumbledore took her to the owlery at school. Of course, I miss Ron and Hermione too, but I know they’ve got each other.”

That made some sort of sense to Snape. He nodded.

The boy opened his mouth to ask a question, but hesitated. After a moment, he asked, “Sir, what was your mum like?”

Snape thought about it for a minute. “She was kind, but timid. She had a good heart, but would never stand up for herself or the things she held dear. I know she must have been an amazing witch in her youth, but as I knew her she was…meek.”

“From what little you know of them, do you think yourself more like your mother or your father?” Snape asked.

Potter looked down. “My father, I’m sure.” Snape waited, but he did not elaborate.

“Did you—do you—hate my dad? And Sirius, too. I mean, do you really _hate_ them?” he asked, with a trace of his old anger and defiance.

“No,” was all Snape said.

Potter scoffed. “I don’t believe you.”

“I can do nothing but assure you of my honesty.”

“Whatever, I still don’t believe you.” Potter turned away and seemed prepared to sulk for a while. Snape had little tolerance for sulking teenagers.

“One moment, Mr. Potter,” Snape said and walked to his room. He grabbed a small vial of clear liquid and went back out to the sitting room.

“Do you know what this is?” He held the vial out so the boy could inspect it.

“I have a guess,” he answered. “Veritaserum?”

“Correct, Mr. Potter. Can you recall the correct dosage?”

He thought about it. “Two drops?”

“Three. Will you agree to believe me if I give my answer under the influence of this potion?”

“I guess I’d have to, wouldn’t I?”

“It would be wise.” Snape removed the lid and let three drops fall onto his tongue. “Repeat your question.”

“Do you hate my dad and Sirius?”

“No. Long ago, I wanted to. I certainly did not like them, but try as I might, I did not hate them. They were popular, good-looking, confident. I was too overcome with jealousy to really hate them.” Even Snape could not believe the frankness of his answer. He quickly moved on. 

“Why did Dumbledore feel it necessary to remove you from your muggle family?” He knew he was asking a lot, but it only seemed fair after what he’d just been forced to admit.

Potter seemed to panicking slightly. “Well, I don’t, I mean I don’t know if I can…I try not to think about it.”

“Do you require assistance in your answer?” Snape asked, holding out the vial of Veritaserum.

“No, it’s just not something I’ve ever said out loud.” That seemed to give him an idea. “Can I just show you instead? I’m not sure I can get through saying it.”

“If you wish. Bring the memory to the front of your mind. _Legilimens_.” A memory slowly presented itself, almost as if against its will. Potter lay face down on a bed in a dark room while Vernon Dursley pounded into him mercilessly. The large man came moments later and collapsed on top of the boy. As soon as he was recovered, he stood and said, “Get dressed, you disgusting boy!” Snape could see blood. Potter’s pants were around his ankles, and he was soon fully clothed. Snape saw no expression on his face whatsoever. He seemed entirely disconnected. 

Just as Dursley reached for the knob, the door opened to reveal Arthur Weasley. “Hello there, Harry. Came to check on you,” he said cheerfully, and then his face fell. He walked closer to the boy. “What’s this Harry?” he asked, indicated a red, rapidly swelling area on his jaw.

“Keep your mouth shut, you ungrateful whelp!” Dursley warned.

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. “Did he do this to you, Harry? Did he hit you?” Potter didn’t answer, but his expression seemed to be enough for Mr. Weasley.

“Merlin, he did. Grab your trunk, we’re leaving this instant.”

And the memory faded to black.

Potter was curled into a ball in the corner of the sofa with his face buried under his arm. Snape tried to wait for him to recover, but he seemed in no hurry to move.

“Did Mr. Weasley know about…what happened before?” Snape asked, trying to keep his voice gentle and managing not to sound hostile.

“You’ve had your question answered,” Potter answered from behind his arm, his voice slightly muffled.

“Mr. Potter…” Snape started, but he was cut off.

“It’s not your turn anymore!” Potter yelled, finally sitting up. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“What’s your worst memory, Professor? Will you show it to me?”

Snape, still under the influence of Veritaserum, could not ignore the question. He stiffened, but said, “Very well, Mr. Potter, whenever you are ready.”

Potter raised his wand and cried, “ _Legilimens_!” and Snape relived an event he would rather never have to remember again.

He saw himself at age ten, setting up a cheap beginner’s potions kit his mother had given him. He could remember the excitement he had felt, and the sense of dread when he heard someone enter the room.

“What are you doing, you useless lump? I thought I told you to get that kitchen cleaned up!” the man roared.

“I…I did, Father. It-it’s clean now, sir,” said the young Snape, who began to tremble.

“Well, it’s not clean enough! And now I find you in here playing around with your ridiculous toys! Where did that come from anyway, boy?” Snape did not have many possessions, so the new addition stood out. Even so, he dared not answer.

“I know where you got it, you ungrateful lump!” he father sneered, grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him from the room.

“Eileen! Eileen, where are you!” he called.

Young Snape tried in vain to twist out of his grasp. “No, sir, please! It’s not her fault!” he begged.

“I’ll decide where blame gets placed in this house, and don’t you ever talk back to me!” he screamed and slapped the boy hard. Tears sprang into his eyes.

“Eileen! There you are. Get over here, you lazy lump!” 

Snape could see the fear in his mother’s eyes as she slowly crept toward his father. Forgotten for the moment, his hair was released and he ran to the side of the room to try to stay out of the way. He watched helplessly as his father began slamming his mother’s head against the wall with so much rage that on the fourth crack, she suddenly stopped moving and crumpled to the floor.

“No!” he cried out, and ran to his mother’s side. “Mother, mother, wake up, you have to wake up!” he pleaded between his shuddering sobs. She wasn’t moving.

“Stop crying, boy. I’ll have no more crying in this house.” He came toward his son very threateningly, but as young Snape backed away in terror, he gently pushed Potter out of his mind.


	7. Shared Experiences

After over an hour spent attempting to teach Potter to shield himself against stinging hexes the next day, they each fell onto a sofa, exhausted. Once they’d both regained their composure, Snape noticed Potter rubbing a bright red welt on his arm. Snape had been careful not to put all his power behind the hexes he threw at the boy, but it looked painful nonetheless. Despite Potter’s stoic expression and lack of complaint, he knew it hurt. Without a word, he retrieved the healing potion he’d made (what felt like) ages ago and gave it to him.

“Thank you, Professor.”

It felt annoyingly good to hear the boy express genuine gratitude so freely. Snape had not been expecting that and did not know how to answer, so he didn’t.

“Why do you always attempt to hide your pain, Mr. Potter?”

Potter looked startled, as if he didn’t realize he did that, then seemed to consider. “Well, in the past I’ve been punished for crying out,” he said quietly.

“When was the last time you cried, Professor?”

“You witnessed the event yesterday. I have not shed a tear since the day my mother died. I, too, have been punished in the past for ‘crying out’. While we are on the subject of memories willingly shared via legillimancy, I wonder if the event I viewed was a one-time occurrence?” 

“Um, no sir, not exactly,” he admitted. He added, “It used to happen when I was younger, but only a couple of times since I started at Hogwarts,” as if that were a good thing. 

Before he even started school? Merlin. Snape knew there was no love lost between Potter and his muggle relatives, and he had heard rumors about a cupboard and very little food. Until then, he had not paid them any heed. Perhaps Potter was not the pampered brat he acted like. Or used to act like.

“Sir, have you ever been in love?”

Snape was drawn out of his thoughts by such an innocent sounding question. “At one time, long ago, I thought perhaps I was. But even then I knew I was fooling myself.” Snape knew he should hate admitting such personal secrets to this boy he had despised for so long, but it was beginning to feel almost natural.

“Have you ever had sex, Mr. Potter?” With someone other than your uncle, he added mentally, hoping the boy would understand.

He blushed a little, and shook his head ‘no’.

“Have…” he began, but seemed to think better of it. “How many sexual partners have you had?”

Snape was not sure he knew the answer to that question. Instead, he answered the question Potter thought he was asking. “I have had consensual sexual relations with two partners.”

Potter’s jaw dropped a bit. “What is that supposed to…I probably don’t want to know, do I? Merlin’s beard.”

No, Snape supposed, he probably did not want to know. He certainly hoped not, as he had no desire to explain the Dark Lord’s peculiar definition of ‘entertainment’.

“If you could choose one person to bring back from the dead, who would it be?” Snape asked.

“I guess it depends. Of course, I want to see my mum and dad, but I miss Sirius so much. But I’d only bring him back if it could be like the whole thing never happened. I wouldn’t ever be able to look him in the eye if he knew I’d killed him.”

“Have I not instructed you to look at me when you are speaking to me? I cannot imagine what is so engaging about your knees.” The boy was still looking down. Attempting to soften his tone, Snape added, “You must know there was nothing you could have done. Black may have died, but you did not kill him.”

“He was only there because of me, because I was too stupid to know Voldemort was tricking me.” He ignored Snape’s glare. “I _let_ the dreams come! I wanted to know what was behind that door so badly. I should have just listened to you and actually tried to close my mind. Instead, I got the only person I had left _killed_.”

“I will concede that you acted foolishly to allow the dreams. But Black, and Black alone, made the decision to go to the Ministry that night. You cannot be held responsible for the actions of others. Yes, you were tricked, but by the most cunning and deceitful mind of our time. It is time you realized that not every bad event that occurs is your fault, and that there remain many persons who care for you very much.”

Potter raised his head and looked at Snape very intently, but did not speak.


	8. Nightmares

During the next day’s occlumency lesson, Potter seemed to have improved. It now felt almost like Potter was acting in a play, rather than lying to his face.

“You have been practicing.”

“Yeah, I had some time on my hands last night.”

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“You said I could only take the Dreamless Sleep two nights in a row, and last night was the third night, so I…I didn’t get much sleep.” He looked down at his hands as if he were ashamed of having had bad dreams, and added very quietly, “I hate waking up screaming.”

Snape wondered at that. He did not remember hearing anything last night, or any other night for that matter.

As if Potter knew what he was thinking, he looked up and explained, “I’ve taken to casting a silencing charm around my bed every night before I go to sleep.”

“Mr. Potter, it is not necessary for you to conceal such things from me. You have become far too used to hiding your pain.”

The boy muttered something. Snape thought he heard “…didn’t want to bother…” somewhere in there.

“Honestly, how to you expect for anyone to be able to help you if you do not let anyone know what is wrong!”

Potter’s head snapped up. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t!” Snape spat back, with perhaps too much vehemence.

The impertinent brat gave an half-smirk and said, “Yes, sir, I can see that.”

Snape was almost desperate to turn the conversation in another direction. _Any_ direction. “It is once again my turn, is it not? I would like to know what the situation is between yourself and young Ginevra Weasley,” he said, expecting that would make the boy plenty uncomfortable.

It did somewhat. “Well, I don’t really know. She’s kind of…suffocating, you know? I mean, she’s nice and all, and she’s my best friend’s little sister, but I haven’t really figured out how to tell her I’m just not interested and to leave me be without getting hit with the scariest Bat-Bogey Hex I’ve ever seen and alienating Ron all at the same time.”

This was not what Snape had been expecting at all, but he accepted it.

“What’s something you’re really good at, Professor? And not potions or legilimency, something I don’t already know.”

Snape thought about it for a moment before answering. He did not consider himself a master of many things. He was ‘good at’ scaring the hair off the heads of first-years, but he presumed that was not the kind of thing Potter meant. “I suppose…I am good at pretending to be someone I am not. Also, I can cast an exceptionally strong General Healing Charm, and I am reasonably well-acquainted with playing the harp.” He paused. “Same question, Mr. Potter.”

“Um, well I’m a good Seeker, but you probably knew that, so I guess it doesn’t count.” He searched for an answer. “I found out this past year that I’m better at teaching than I thought I would be. And I’m pretty okay at pretending to be someone I’m not as well, though I seem to be slipping a bit lately,” he added with a faint smirk.

“Erm, Professor? I know this isn’t really a question in the strictest sense, but I was wondering if you would play me something,” he asked self-consciously and turned his head slightly to the side as if expecting to be run out of the room or some such.

Snape could see no reason not to oblige him. He retrieved a couch cushion and turned it into a harp. “Keep in mind, Mr. Potter, that transfigured instruments are never as good as those built by hand, but as this is the only type available to me at present it will have to suffice.”

He was unexplainably nervous about playing for him and closed his eyes. He did not normally play to an audience, but the few times he did he had not felt apprehension like this. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling and began to play his favorite lullaby, his eyes still closed.

 

That night, he was awakened by a faint whimpering that soon gave way to sobs. With no hesitation, he rose from his bed, retrieved a potion from his stocks, and went to Potter’s room.

The boy was curled in a tight ball at the edge of his bed, shaking and crying.

“Mr. Potter. Mr. Potter, wake up. Harry!”

At this, he finally opened his eyes and looked around wildly with pain and terror in his eyes. Snape uncapped the potion and persuaded him to drink it as gently as he could. In a matter of seconds, the boy seemed to come to himself, though he was still crying almost uncontrollably.

“What did you give me?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Calming Draught, of course. Are you sufficiently recovered?” Snape tried to ask, but before he even got the words out, Potter had turned away from him and curled up again, still sobbing. Clearly, the answer was no.

“Potter,” he said quietly and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He could feel him tense at the touch, but he didn’t pull away so Snape left his hand where it was. He unconsciously rubbed his thumb back and forth in what must have been a soothing manner, because after a few minutes the boy’s shudders and sobs diminished. 

A few minutes more, and Snape knew from his even breathing that Potter had fallen back to sleep. He brushed a lock of hair off the sleeping forehead and returned to his room.


	9. Vigoratus

“What subject would you like to study today?” Snape inquired when Potter entered the sitting room.

“Well, we’ve done Potions and DADA. Are you going to teach me how properly milk _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ venom now?”

First, Snape was glad to see the boy give an actual smile. Then he wondered exactly where that feeling had come from and he quickly went from pleased to irritated.

“Have you seen any house plants here? We may engage in a short lesson on either Charms or Transfiguration—make your choice or I will decide for you.”

“Um, okay. Well, at the end of last term I was still having trouble transfiguring water into ice. I know that should be easy, but I don’t really see the point when I could just cast a Freezing Charm.”

“Charms of that nature,” Snape answered, “require constant attention to maintain. Normally this would not be a problem, but if you wished to use it in the midst of battle, you would no doubt be distracted by flying curses and the charm would fail. If you used transfiguration, however, the ice would remain just that, until such time as you chose to transfigure it again or it melted.”

Potter scoffed. “Why in the world would I want to transform water into ice in the middle of a fight?”

“It might serve you. I have done so in the past.” Snape paused, wondering if he should continue. “Before his downfall almost fifteen years ago, The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters—including myself, though by that time I was spying for the Order—went to a small muggle village. They didn’t just kill the villagers, they _tortured_ them. It was not a pleasant spectacle to behold. Then, it began to rain, and I transfigured the falling raindrops into ice. It was not enough to harm the Dark Lord or his followers, of course, as I had no wish to inflict further pain upon the villagers. But it worried him, and he ordered us to leave.”

“Wow, that was clever. It never would’ve occurred to me to do something like that.”

“Yes, subtlety is not your forte. Shall we begin?”

Potter nodded eagerly and they spent the next hour on it. By the end of the hour, he was able to freeze water, but only in the shape it was already in. He could not, for instance, take a glass of water and transfigure it into a pile of ice cubes.

“You have made progress, though I doubt Professor McGonagall will be satisfied until you can freeze the entire ocean in the shape of a giant squid. You must continue to practice.”

Potter was smiling again, even showing teeth this time. Snape felt a tight knot in his chest at the realization that he had caused that response in the boy who had been so subdued all summer. He instantly pushed the feeling aside.

“So, Mr. Potter, tell me what you intend to do with the rest of your life. I believe I heard something about becoming an auror from your Head of House?”

“Yeah, I’m sure you did. I don’t really know about that, though. It just sort of made sense, you know? It seemed in line with everything else I’m supposed to do. But really, it doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll never survive a battle with Voldem—,” Snape’s sharp intake of breath and narrowed eyes stopped him. “I’ll never survive against _You-Know-Who_ , even if I do manage to kill him.” He paused. “Why do you get so upset about me saying his name? Of course, everyone else does too, but I figured you of all people wouldn’t be afraid to hear it.”

“The Dark Lord does not appreciate it when a person he is trying to kill uses the name he gave himself. In fact, in his early years he invented a particularly hideous curse to use on those occasions, with some help from his loyal followers.” Snape averted his eyes. He was ashamed of many things in his past, but dwelling on them would not help anything.

“Help from you, you mean?”

Snape was surprised to see a look of concern on Potter’s face, rather than the anger or hatred he had expected. This however, did not induce him to answer. “It is not your turn, Mr. Potter,” he said softly. “Why do you feel you will not survive the final battle?”

“Well, I’m just a kid. He’s so much more powerful than me—you know better than anyone that my magic is just like all the other kids’ at school. Maybe if he doesn’t come after me for another twenty years, I’ll be able to train up to his level. Or, you know, near it at least.”

“You may only be fifteen, and you may not have supernatural magical abilities, but do not assume you will face the Dark Lord alone.”

“But I’ve got to! I can’t keep putting people in danger all the time.” His brow furrowed and he seemed genuinely distressed at the idea someone might try to help him. 

“As long as the Dark Lord lives, everyone will be in danger all the time. I told you this once before, but I will repeat it. People are free to act of their own volition, and you are not accountable for the actions of others. There will be help by your side, whether you wish it or not.”

He hesitantly asked, “Will you be there?”

“Of course,” Snape responded immediately. “I would not miss it.”

The boy nodded, but Snape could not read the emotion in his eyes.

 

At five o’clock, Snape stood. “It is time for supper, Mr. Potter,” he said and swept into the kitchen, as he had every day at this time. The boy followed him into the room at sat at the small table while Snape began to prepare something.

He set some water to boil for pasta and let his thoughts wander. He realized he had been staring at Potter when the boy’s green eyes looked up and caught him at it. He instantly turned back to the stove. Unfortunately, he moved too quickly and brushed his hand against the searing pot and cried out.

“Professor!” Potter yelped and rushed to his side. Somehow, the boy managed to knock the pot of boiling water off the stove and onto himself. He fell to the floor screaming.

“Harry!” Snape cried, and drew his wand. “ _Vigoratus_!”

After a moment, Potter quieted down and ran his hands over his body. “You healed me,” he said in disbelief. “The burns are _completely_ gone. How did you do that?”

“You were previously informed of the power of my General Healing Charm,” Snape replied, trying to calm himself.

“Yeah, but still. How did you learn to do that?”

“It is a simple enough charm. Medi-witches and wizards learn a vast number of very specific spells to heal very specific ailments. These spells are quite powerful, especially in comparison to the usual general charm. However, as you may imagine, there have been times in my life when I was badly hurt and unable to seek professional medical attention. I had not the time to learn the entire repertoire of a medi-wizard, so I came to rely very heavily on this charm. I needed to be able to successfully cast it on myself, even when I was holding onto consciousness by a thread. Over time, it because quite strong.”

Potter still lay on the ground, looking at him with wide eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _vigoratus_ is Latin for ‘heal’.


	10. Dreamless Sleep

For the second night in a row, Snape awoke in the dead of night. At first, he was uncertain what had drawn him out of sleep. Then he heard a muffled cry, a scream almost. He retrieved a potion from his bedside table and rushed across the hall.

“Mr. Potter, wake up! It is only a dream, Potter, wake up. Harry!”

Potter opened his eyes and frantically scanned the room until he caught sight of Snape seated on the edge of his bed. He was still breathing hard, but the terror slowly left his eyes.

“You just called me Harry,” he said, almost as if to himself.

“I did no such thing!” Snape retorted and withdrew his hand, which, unbeknownst to him, had come to rest on the boy’s arm.

“It’s okay, Professor,” Potter said softly, and reached out as if to touch Snape’s arm, then abruptly stopped.

“Would you mind, I mean I was just wondering…would you stay for a minute? I just slept so well last night, with you here.” The boy looked like he might burst into tears.

When Snape didn’t answer, he added, “It’s okay, sir. You don’t have to,” and a look of pure humiliation accompanied a crimson blush to his face.

“You mistake me, Mr. Potter. I shall stay if you wish it.” He just couldn’t take seeing such a look on that face when he knew he could take it away.

“Thank you, sir.” The boy lay back down on his stomach with his head turned away from Snape.

Snape couldn’t believe he was doing this, and did not even attempt to understand why, but he simply sat and rubbed circles on Potter’s back until well after he’d fallen asleep, the unused potion clenched in his hand, forgotten.

The next morning, the memories he initially saw in Potter’s mind felt slightly less forced than before, but still had a false quality about them. He pushed until he felt a weak spot, and a new set of memories began flashing before his eyes. 

He was unsurprised to see Black falling through the veil and Lupin restraining Potter. Next, he caught a very brief flash of Vernon Dursley’s bloated, angry face, then he heard a shouted, “Harry!” in his own distinctive voice and saw himself rubbing the boy’s back. He thought the next thing might have been the Diggory boy’s death again, but he had stopped paying attention and could not be certain.

He ended the spell and found Potter looking at him very apprehensively, like he was deciding whether or not to make a run for it.

“A slight improvement. Continue practicing,” was all he said. He heard Potter let out a breath before he sat on the couch.

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Snape realized what Potter was likely waiting for. 

“My turn, is it not?” Potter reluctantly nodded his head.

“Very well. How exactly did you slay the ferocious dragon in your fourth year? After it broke its bonds, no one could see what transpired and I never heard details.”

“Oh, I crashed it into a bridge,” he answered matter-of-factly.*

Of course, Snape thought, how silly of me. He crashed it into a bloody bridge. Only a Gryffindor.

“Sir, why don’t you dream? I mean, has it always been that way, or…did something happen?”

“It has not always been this way. In my youth, I presume, I dreamt as much as anyone. However, when I was a young man, a series of events occurred which left me plagued by nightmares. I imagine you can relate?” He quirked an eyebrow at the boy before he continued. “I was so desperate to rid myself of the nightmares that I foolishly ignored warnings about the Dreamless Sleep potion and took it every night for three weeks. I have not dreamt since.”

“Merlin, that’s awful!” Potter exclaimed.

“It is not without its merits. I have not had a nightmare for over fifteen years.”

“Still, that seems like a heavy price to pay. I wouldn’t do it,” Potter said, still shaking his head in disbelief.

“A wise assessment.” The words came out before he could prevent them. If he didn’t stop giving Potter off-hand compliments, the brat might start to think he liked him or something. Best to ignore it.

“What exactly has transpired between yourself and Ms. Chang?” he asked.

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve seen everything that happened with me and her,” he answered sheepishly. “Basically, she snogged me once then started to cry, then she went out with me on Valentine’s Day and started to cry. The whole thing was fairly miserable, actually.”

“Sir, do you mind if I ask…What’s the worst thing you did as a Death Eater?”

“Do you mean the worst thing for me, or the worst thing in some global moral sense?” He felt he had done so many ‘worst things’ that he needed to narrow the field. 

“For you, I guess.”

What he wanted to say was, ‘Though I did not realize it until recently, by far the worst thing I ever did was to precipitate the untimely demise of your parents, to take away from you those who loved you the most, to cause you pain no one should have to endure, and to throw your life onto the path of a dark and irrevocable destiny.’

What he said instead was, “I deeply regret informing the Dark Lord of the prophecy made by Professor Trelawney.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Yes, I realize this only happened in the movie, but I liked the idea of it.


	11. Something Unique

Snape couldn’t help lying awake in bed, listening for sounds of distress coming from across the hall, holding the vial of Calming Draught in his hand just in case. Once, he had thought he heard something and went to check on Potter, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. When Snape discovered himself still standing in the doorway, staring at the sleeping form, he’d forced himself to return to his bed.

This time he was certain Potter was having a nightmare and dashed across the hall. He heard a whimpered, “No, no please, come back, no,” and sat at the edge of the bed. Instead of shouting to awaken the sleeping boy, he leaned over and brushed his cheek.

At his touch, Potter opened his eyes and grabbed Snape’s arm. He tried to pull away, but the boy clung to him with a look of desperation. Potter scooted up until he was curled around Snape’s arm like it was some sort of teddy bear. 

Snape gave up trying to get his arm back. He leaned against the headboard and carded the fingers of his free hand through the boy’s hair as he drifted back to sleep.

Snape woke with a pain in his neck, slumped against Potter’s headboard. The boy was holding Snape’s hand over his heart, still sleeping. Reluctant to wake him, Snape settled back to watch him sleep for a while, taking in that peaceful, captivating face.

After a few minutes, Potter began to stir. He tightened his grip on Snape’s hand and tilted his head back to make eye contact with a look Snape could not even come close to identifying. He didn’t know whether it was an hour or only a couple of seconds, but all too soon the boy seemed to realize what he was doing and released Snape’s hand as if it were cursed, or possibly on fire.

“Oh god, sorry sir,” he mumbled and sat up, pulling away.

“Your apology is unnecessary,” Snape said as he stood and left the room. Once outside, he closed the door and leaned against it. What in Merlin’s name am I doing? he wondered. He shook his head as if attempting to dislodge something from his mind and went to his own room to dress.

When he entered the sitting room, Potter was waiting for him on the couch.

“Potions today, Mr. Potter,” he announced and went back to his room without waiting for Potter to acknowledge him. The boy hurried after Snape to his room.

“We will be attempting something unique today, and I mean that literally. I would like you to brew a potion of your own invention.” Potter was looking at him in sheer panic. “I do not imagine your potion will actually be effective—my expectations are not that high. I will simply be looking for good application of potion-making theory. You are to use what knowledge you have of the properties of various ingredients and techniques. This task is to be completed on your own—I will not help you.” With that, Snape picked up a book and sat in an armchair close by, leaving the boy to do what he would.

Almost four hours later, Snape noticed Potter standing in front of his cauldron fidgeting. He looked over and said, “I think I’m done, Professor,” and Snape went over to inspect his work. He was pleased to note that the potion was not smoking, nor did it consist of sludge stuck like concrete to the inside of the cauldron, nor did it appear to have caught fire at any point.

He studied it for several minutes, trying to discern what Potter had been attempting to create, and was left in silent disbelief at his conclusion.

“What do you call your new potion, Mr. Potter? Does it have a name?”

“Well, its supposed to be the opposite of Dreamless Sleep, so I guess it would be Dream- _filled_ Sleep, or some such.”

So Snape had been right. “Explain to me the reasoning you employed in its creation.”

“Well, sir, it still needed to make the drinker fall asleep, just like Dreamless Sleep, so I left all the ingredients that I thought went toward that aspect alone. Then I took everything that was left and tried to replace it with something that did the opposite of that ingredient. I had a bit of trouble with the moonstone, though, because the opposite of that would be Golden Nuggets, but those react rather badly with rosemary—which I put in in place of the hemlock—so I used some Essence of Sunshine instead,” Potter explained. “Oh, and I had to use thestral blood instead of tentacula venom, as that probably would have just made you turn green and spew it all back out.”

“Eloquent, as always, Mr. Potter, but surprisingly well thought out. What about the brewing technique? What did you decide the ‘opposite’ of twenty minutes on medium heat, stirring once every thirty seconds was?”

Potter’s face fell and Snape knew he had failed to consider this. 

“No matter, it is still a passable attempt. Just remember in the future that the method is as important as the ingredients when brewing. Did you make notes while you worked?” Potter nodded. “Give them to me, I will look them over this evening.”

He placed Potter’s notes where they would not get lost and they returned to the sitting room.

“Tell me, Mr. Potter. Why did you choose to attempt this particular potion? I would have thought you would try something simpler.”

“It was for you,” he answered softly.


	12. Dream-Filled Sleep

That evening, Snape set up his cauldron and got out Potter’s notes. He was strangely touched by the boy’s gesture. He tried not to examine the feeling too deeply, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Perhaps he was not the typical arrogant, selfish Gryffindor after all.

He cleared his mind of all (most) distracting thoughts and concentrated on the potion.

Other than utterly failing to consider how the amalgamation of ingredients he’d put together ought to have been brewed, the boy’s theory was largely sound. There were, of course, mistakes, however and Snape set about correcting them.

Dittany, as any second-year would know, must always be brewed at a very high temperature to avoid toxicity, but rosemary combined with asphodel would explode under such extreme heat. Replacing rosemary with belladonna would correct this easily, as the plants had very similar properties. Potter was obviously confused about what exactly daisy roots did, as he had replaced them with nettles when the proper replacement would have been powdered bicorn horn. A bit of wormwood to allay the undesirable reaction between hellebore and Essence of Sunshine, and he was well on his way to transforming this potion into something that would not instantly kill the drinker.

Snape tried to lose himself in preparing the potion as he traditionally did, especially when delving into the unknown, but his mind kept drifting back to Potter. When he’d said that he had made it for him, Snape’s first instinct had been to assume the boy was mocking him, mocking his mistake and the pain it had caused. 

But he had said it with such…compassion, such longing. Snape couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared enough about him to make a gesture like that. If anyone ever had. And yet the boy…maybe it was time to stop thinking of him as a boy. After spending so much time with Potter, Snape felt like he’d never really been just a boy. He felt there was a depth to him…no, no, he did not, he _would_ not think about such things.

Snape forced his mind back to the task at hand and worked well into the night. 

He thought he had to be going mad when, a few hours later, he heard a strangled, “Severus!” It seemed to be coming from Potter’s room, like he was having another nightmare. But, Snape reminded himself, he had gone the requisite three nights without Dreamless Sleep already and should not have been having any dreams at all.

This doubled his worry and he rushed to check on him.

The boy…no, not a boy. _Potter_ was murmuring, “Please, don’t, no no, _Severus_ …”

When he had heard his name—what was Potter doing using his first name anyway?—from his room, it had been screamed in anguish, but the second time sounded so hurt and was filled with such longing that he stopped short. When Potter moaned he remembered how to move and strode instantly to the bed.

“Potter…Potter,” he called softly and reached out to touch his shoulder.

At his touch, Potter sat up immediately, started crying, and threw his arms around Snape. “Oh god, Severus, oh _Merlin_ you were dead, he _killed_ you, oh god…”

“Hush, hush now,” Snape interrupted. “I am here, everything’s fine, hush,” he soothed while stroking the…man’s hair. He tried to get Potter to lie back down, but he refused to relinquish his hold. Defeated, Snape lay down himself and drew Potter down with him. Anything to get him back to sleep, he told himself, trying not to think about how beautiful his own name sounded coming from that mouth.


	13. Under the Influence

Even before Snape opened his eyes, he was filled with a feeling of perfect contentment. He slowly became aware of a warm body pressed against his, the sound of steady breathing, and a beguiling scent he could not quite identify. He opened his eyes to find his face almost buried in Potter’s hair and involuntarily smiled. Without a thought, he placed a soft kiss on the man’s jaw.

This action shocked him fully awake. He quickly rose and all but ran out the door. Once back in his own room, he tried to organize his thoughts with only marginal success. 

I just kissed him! Snape thought with shock and self-loathing. What the bloody hell was I thinking, he’s my student! What in the name of Merlin is happening to me? Only two weeks locked in this infernal safe house, and I am already losing my mind.

Kissing Harry bloody Potter—what would he do next, pledge his undying love to Moaning Myrtle? sprout a tail? _giggle_? He thanked his stars that Potter had still been asleep. He could just imagine the look on Potter’s face if he’d known what his old, ugly, evil, Potions master had just done.

Snape could hear his own heart beating loudly and pulled the vial of Calming Draught from the pocket of his robes. After a mouthful, he could think somewhat more clearly. 

It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. It was just a reaction to finding himself in such a situation, one he had thought never to experience again. After taking in that tantalizing scent and the sight of that dark, tangled hair, it had just seemed like the natural thing to do. 

_Natural_? There was nothing natural about this. Whatever it was, it had to stop, immediately. Potter was his student, his subordinate. Not to mention, Snape didn’t think he could handle having his heart broken.

His eyes widened. Where had _that_ thought come from?

His mind—the strongest, steadiest, most secure part of himself—seemed to be betraying him, filling his head with unbidden thoughts. It was almost as if someone had cursed him, though he knew it was impossible. At his wit’s end, he decided on a course of action.

He warded the door with several different spells and began brewing Wake-Me-Not. It was a relatively simple potion, and he finished it less than an hour later. He took a double dose, fell into his bed, and was instantly asleep.

When he woke at about seven that evening, his first thought was that he was ravenous. Then he noticed he was lying fully clothed, on top of the covers, and everything came flooding back to him. He knew sleeping all day to avoid Potter and his own traitorous mind was not a solution, but it did not stop him wishing he could just forget it all and go back to sleep.

He did not allow himself the luxury, if for no other reason than he had not eaten in twenty-four hours and needed to sate his hunger. Unfortunately, this meant leaving the confines of his room. He took a breath and steeled himself before opening the door and going to the kitchen. 

“There you are!” Potter called from the sitting room and rushed into the kitchen. “I was getting worried.”

Wearing his standard, carefully crafted non-expression expression, Snape replied, “Whatever for?”

“Well, I haven’t seen you all day. You missed our lesson!” Potter explained, clearly exasperated. 

“You are complaining about a day off? I wouldn’t have thought you capable,” Snape sneered, then wolfed down a muffin with as must restraint as he could muster.

“Well, I didn’t really think about it that way. What were you doing in there all day, anyway?”

“I brewed a potion or two and took a nap, if you must know,” he answered, digging through the pantry for something more substantial. He found a container of leftover casserole and scooped half of it onto a plate. He cast a warming charm on it, sat at the table, and began to devour it. 

Potter put the second half on a plate and joined him at the table. Snape did not look up from his food, but he could tell the man was just sitting there looking at him, not eating. After a few minutes of this, he lifted his head and glared at him.

“It’s, uh, your turn, Professor,” Potter said tentatively and finally picked up his fork.

“Very well, Mr. Potter. Why did you not take a dose of Dreamless Sleep last night?”

Potter quickly looked down and addressed his food, “I…Erm, I forgot.”

“Do not lie to me. Do you wish to end this silly game, or shall I fetch the Veritaserum?”

The man seemed quite distressed at the mention of Veritaserum and shook his head. “No! No I, uh, don’t think that’ll be necessary. Really, I just forgot.”

“I do not appreciate being lied to. If you wish this exchange to continue, you will answer me truthfully,” Snape threatened.

After a moment, Potter’s shoulders drooped and he seemed to resign himself to answering. “All I wanted…I just thought…” he said to his plate, then finally raised his head. “Merlin, maybe this would be easier with Veritaserum.”

“As you wish. _Accio Veritaserum_ ,” Snape said and held out the vial that flew into his hand.

Potter was about to administer the potion to himself, then stopped. “It only seems fair, sir, if we both take it. Don’t you think?”

Snape was loathe to take the potion after the events of the morning, but his curiosity got the better of him—why was Potter so reluctant to answer his question? He gave a curt nod.

At this, Potter let three drops of the potion fall into his mouth and handed the vial to Snape, who did the same.

“So, why did you not take your dose of Dreamless Sleep last night?” he asked again.

“I wanted to hear you say my name again.” Potter’s eyes went wide, as if he was surprised by his own answer. “I wanted you to come to me, to touch me, to comfort me again.”

Snape was left speechless. Had the potion gone bad? What sort of trick was Potter trying to play?

“Why did you run away like a herd of blast-ended skrewts was on your tail after you kissed me?”

Oh no, this was not possible. He had been asleep—hadn’t he? Snape was fervently wishing he had not consented to taking Veritaserum, but it was forcing him to speak. “I do not know precisely. I did not want to, but I was afraid and…ashamed.” Only sheer force of will kept him from burying his head in his hands and hiding under the table. 

“Why did you not tell me you were awake?”

“Are you kidding?” Potter said. “I knew it would bring about that whole blast-ended skrewt scenario, and I didn’t want you to leave. I wanted to stay that way forever, wrapped in your arms. Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” The answer was out before he could stop it. “Damnit, Harry, this is highly inappropriate, and you know it! I demand that you desist in whatever childish prank you are attempting to pull and stop toying with me!” Snape railed, trying in vain to control his emotions and his tongue.

The insolent brat was smirking. “What’s so funny?” Snape spat.

“Nothing, I’m just happy. You called me by my name,” he answered, his grin getting bigger.

Snape tried to say, ‘I did no such thing!’ but what came out was simply, “Yes.” He grimaced. Blast the bloody Veritaserum—this was going too far. 

Before he could speak, Potter asked, “Why exactly did you avoid me all day?”

“I couldn’t bear to see the look on your face if you knew what I’d done, what I’d been thinking.”

“And what were you thinking?” Potter asked immediately.

Snape wanted to tell him it wasn’t his bloody turn and to sod off, but instead he answered, “I was thinking that you smell divine.”


	14. Losing Ground

Snape had to get out of there, at least until the Veritaserum wore off. He just kept digging the hole deeper and deeper and it was not to be borne.

He stood to go back to his room, but before he could even turn around, Potter was standing in front of him—standing very _close_ —and tilting his head up. And then Potter kissed him.

For a split second, Snape lost himself in the feel of the man’s lips against his, but it did not last. He took a step back and shoved Potter away from him with such force that he slammed into the wall.

Snape saw a brief flicker of fear in his eyes, but he did not regret his actions. It was the response he was hoping for.

“Why, why are you doing this Potter?” Snape demanded.

“I can’t exactly put my finger on it. I just know that I want you, and that I want you to want me.”

“You _want me_?” Snape said mockingly. “You do not know the first thing about me, what I’ve done, what my life is!” If this conversation wasn’t so surreal, he thought, it just might be hilarious.

“Then why don’t you tell me? Help me understand!”

“Because I do not yet wish you to know!” Snape spat back. _Yet_? How had that worked its way into the sentence? Bloody Veritaserum. It was time to end this foolish display.

He turned sharply and strode out of the room, his robes billowing behind him. Without looking back, he ordered, “Take your bloody potion tonight!” and slammed the door.

Now safely ensconced in his room, Snape took a swig of Calming Draught, then a second for good measure. He wished he had something a bit stronger—an entire bottle of Bifferty’s single malt scotch would be ideal—but it was not to be.

Due to his self-prescribed ten hour ‘nap’ earlier, he was not the least bit sleepy, so he decided to do what he always did when he couldn’t think of anything better—brew a potion. The Dream-filled Sleep he had been working on the night before had now been sitting idle for far too long and was completely useless. Snape raised his wand, thought, ‘ _Evanesco_ ,’ and it disappeared.

He started anew and worked until almost seven in the morning, when he couldn’t think properly anymore, and went to bed for an hour or so. When he rose, he formulated a plan. It was his usual plan: when in doubt, revert to the status quo, which seemed to work in the majority of circumstances.

So he made some toast and a cup of tea, got a book, and settled on the sofa to await Potter’s appearance. 

At precisely ten o’clock, Potter shuffled in.

“Are you ready to begin your occlumency lesson?” Snape asked disinterestedly. 

At first, Potter seemed somewhat taken aback at the question, but eventually nodded his head.

“ _Legillimens_ ,” Snape said, wand raised. He saw a very unsteady-looking memory of Potter sitting in the Gryffindor common room writing an essay, but it soon wavered and gave way to Potter screaming, trying to follow Black behind the veil, then the duel with the Dark Lord at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, then Potter sitting naked on a bed, rocking back and forth. He had no expression on his face, and seemed not to hear his uncle shouting, “You liked that, didn’t you, you disgusting boy! You’re so insolent and worthless, but deep down you know you deserve to be punished, you freak!”

Snape broke the connection to find Potter sitting on the couch, rocking back and forth, with the same expressionless face he had just seen in Potter’s memory. 

“Mr. Potter?” he asked, with no response. “Potter!”

Potter jerked his head up. “Yes, sir!” he replied, obviously startled.

“We seem to be moving backward,” Snape sighed.

“Sir?” Potter said, his brow furrowed.

“You are worse at this than you were three days ago,” Snape said slowly, as if explaining to a five-year-old. “You are not focusing.”

“No, sir, I suppose not,” he admitted.

“I will not waste my time on this lesson if you are not going to pay attention,” Snape said and picked his book up again.

“Professor, do you mind if I ask…The other day, you said you’d had ‘consensual sexual relations with two partners’. I was just wondering, exactly how many partners have you had _non_ -consensual sex with?” Potter looked away, as if he wasn’t certain he really wanted to hear the answer. 

“As the aggressor, or as the victim?” Snape asked very quietly.

“Bloody hell,” Potter said to himself. “I don’t know, both, I guess.”

“As the victim: thirty-two.” That one was easy to remember—there were the Dark Lord’s most loyal twenty-seven Death Eaters twenty years ago, and the members of the inner circle just a few months ago, eight of whom were leftover from the first group and five of whom were new recruits. He didn’t think he was required to mention exactly how many times it had happened. The other matter was slightly more vague. He knew there were seven of his fellow Death Eaters, and several muggles. “As the aggressor: ten to fifteen.”

“Blimey. Were they…” Potter started, “No, I’m sorry. It’s your turn.”

“Indeed. Why would you ask such a question?”

“You’re the one who said I know next to nothing about you. I’m just trying to get to know you better. And…it makes me feel less alone.” He bit his lip and looked down at his knees for a moment before continuing. “Were they all because of You-Know-Who? I mean, you didn’t…”

“No, of course not,” Snape interrupted. “It was all at the Dark Lord’s command.”

Potter nodded and directed his gaze at his knees once again. He was clearly having a difficult time with this, but Snape didn’t have a clue as to what he was supposed to do. Generally, he avoided anything resembling ‘relating to his students’ like the Dragon Pox.

“Mr. Potter, how do you feel when your uncle…punishes you?” he asked tentatively, though he tried to convey more confidence than he felt.

“Erm, I don’t know. I guess at first, a long time ago, I felt confused. And angry. And then I guess I sort of started to think I deserved it. Then I didn’t feel anything at all—it was like I wasn’t in my body anymore.”

Well, that sounded familiar. “While it was happening you detached yourself—but what about afterward?” Snape asked, hoping the man wouldn’t notice it wasn’t his turn anymore.

“I um, I guess maybe I felt gross, disgusting. I felt like a freak.” He said the last part so softly that Snape almost didn’t hear.

“You should not believe _anything_ your uncle says about you. He is nothing but a vile, mediocre waste of molecules.”

Potter nodded, but didn’t look like his heart was in it. “Sir, have you ever…been with a man? Consensually, I mean?” he added hastily.

“Mr. Potter, I am getting tired of saying this, but please look at me when you speak to me. As to your question, the answer is yes. I feel certain I would know by now if you had ever had sexual relations with a male, but do you feel that…inclination?”

“Well, it’s pretty clear I don’t like girls. I’m not sure yet about men in general—I am inclined toward you,” he answered, and finally looked up from his lap.

“You may keep that particular inclination to yourself, Mr. Potter,” Snape asserted, with perhaps a bit too much vehemence. “I will not be dragged into that discussion again. Come, it is tea time.”


	15. Offense is the Best Defense

After extensive searching, Snape found an old, dusty bottle of wine tucked away on top of his wardrobe. He briefly considered transfiguring it into scotch, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it good enough to be worth it.

He had brought the bottle to his lips and was about to drink when he decided that this was really rather pathetic. 

He turned a potion vial into a wine glass and used that instead.

He looked at the label—1899, a good year indeed. Though he was now on his fourth glass, so that probably had something to do with it. Wait, fourth glass? The bottle was still half full! He read the label more closely. ‘A gallon of Peppernickle Vineyard’s best Cabernet Sauvignon in a handy quart-sized bottle!’ Ah, of course, he thought, and proceeded to drink the rest of the bottle.

By the time he finished his sixth glass, he had all but forgotten the impetus for his impromptu bender, but when he finished off the last drop and was left with nothing to do but lie down and drift to sleep, visions of what he could only assume were two pieces of jade suspended in midair accompanied him into the darkness.

When he woke, he thought he surely had a stack of books sitting on his head, but when he tried to shift to remove them he found that he would really rather stay very very still. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the empty wine bottle on his bedside table.

Realization dawned and he retrieved his wand from under his pillow. “ _Accio Hangover Relief Potion_ ,” he mumbled. He had made the potion several days earlier just for fun, even though he’d had no reason to suspect there was any alcohol in the safe house. Once the potion began to take effect, he was coherent enough to be rather grateful for this. Soon, he was quite himself again and went about his morning routine.

He made his way into the sitting room a little before ten and was surprised to find Potter there waiting for him. 

“Eager as ever, I see,” he sneered. “We will return our attentions to Defense Against the Dark Arts today. That is, unless you find yourself unable to focus once more?”

“No, sir, I’m all set. What did you have in mind?” 

Potter’s manner seemed, if not enthusiastic, then at least willing. Perhaps this would not be a wasted day.

“Many have spent a great deal of time and effort attempting to teach you to defend yourself. But, as the muggles are so fond of saying, ‘The best defense is a good offense.’ Therefore you will be practicing casting hexes and curses, rather than blocking them, today.”

“You want me to hex you, professor?”

“Do not flatter yourself; I doubt you will be able to touch me. Perhaps in time,” Snape said, his doubt evident. “I shall only cast protective spells, blocks, and shield charms, so you need not worry about getting yourself killed today, as I do not imagine your own reflected curses will have enough power to harm you much. You may begin when you are ready.”

For the next hour, Potter threw everything he could think of at Snape, who easily evaded him. A few times, he was knocked off his feet when Snape’s shield charm directed his own spells back at him, but he was not seriously hurt. He was clearly struggling with all the will he could muster, and Snape was not even breaking a sweat. 

“Stop,” Snape said coolly. “Take ten minutes to regain your composure and rethink your strategy, then we will continue.” 

Snape sat and read a few pages while Potter panted on the opposite sofa.

“Your time is up, are you ready to resume?”

Potter nodded with a determined look on his face.

“Very well, at your pleasure, Mr. Potter.”

Snape could feel the difference in the force of Potter’s stunning spell. It was short-lived, however, as Potter seemed equally shocked by the change and lost his concentration. This was only momentary, and he quickly resumed his attack.

Snape couldn’t believe it. He was having trouble—a great deal of trouble, actually—blocking the man’s curses. And they were only getting stronger! Snape put all his power behind a shouted, “ _Protego_!” and managed to reflect most of Potter’s stinging hex back to him. Potter gasped when the spell hit him, but it did not slow him down. If anything, it had the opposite effect.

Though it did not show in his face, Snape was now frantically blocking Potter’s spells, and most of them only just. Suddenly, he could feel magical power swelling in the room, prickling across his skin. On the surface, it was akin to static electricity, but it was so much more than that. Snape had only felt power like that a few times in his life and was somewhat awed, despite himself.

He erected a block, put every ounce of magic he had behind it, and braced himself. He distinctly felt the stunning spell hit his block, and almost immediately go right through it.

When he opened his eyes, he slowly focused on the ceiling of the sitting room. As if from a distance, he heard, “Professor? Are you all right? I’m so sorry sir!”

Snape managed to pull himself to a sitting position, cast a silent revitalizing spell on himself, and muttered, “Calm yourself, I will live.” He still could not believe the tremendous power he had just witnessed. How had Potter managed to hide it all this time? And why had it come out now? Though he was still struggling to breathe normally, he found himself longing for more.

“That was so cool—I had no idea you could actually _feel_ magic!” Potter exclaimed. “I could feel your magic, almost like it was touching me, and even if there’d been a hundred people here, I would’ve known it was yours, because it _felt_ like you. I’ve never felt anything so…I mean it was just so, so _intimate_.”

“Yes, quite,” was Snape’s faint reply.


	16. Exceeding Expectations

“Does that always happen when you duel with someone, Professor?” 

“No, Mr. Potter, it does not. I have only experienced it a few times in my life. In fact, I can recall it happening only with the headmaster, and once in the presence of the Dark Lord,” Snape answered.

“Wow, so for me to be able to feel your magic, it means you’re as powerful as either of them?”

Snape already knew this to be true and, not being afflicted with false modesty, responded, “It does indeed.” Potter’s eyes were wide with awe—he seemed not to realize that Snape had been able to feel his magic as well.

“Why haven’t I ever felt it before?” Potter asked.

“For the simple reason that I have never needed to use that much magic in your presence before,” Snape responded impassively.

“So, I got a little better? You weren’t just going easy on me?”

The man truly did not have any idea what he was capable of, did he? “When have you ever known me to ‘go easy on you’, Mr. Potter?”

Potter rolled his eyes. “Well, lately you’ve been acting a little more, you know, _human_ , so I thought maybe it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.”

Snape scowled. What was this, heretofore untapped, power of Potter’s? “What did you do differently once we resumed after the break?” he asked.

Potter blushed a little and looked down. “This is going to sound ridiculous, I know, but here it is. Any time I’ve ever tried casting curses or hexes, I usually focused on how much I hated You-Know-Who, and how angry I was for him taking everyone away from me, and how I wanted to just end him. But then you told me to ‘rethink’ my strategy, so instead, I thought about protecting the people I love from him, and freeing them from him forever, and how my heart would break if he ever hurt them. I’ve tried that approach a couple of times before, but it’s never really worked.”

 _‘He will have a power the Dark Lord knows not.’_ Albus had always told him that power was love, but Snape hadn’t believed it. He should have known better than to doubt the old wizard after all these years.

Snape noticed Potter twiddling his thumbs, looking dejected. 

“What is the matter now, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked in exasperation.

“Nothing…It’s just none of it really matters,” Potter said, still looking down at his thumbs. “I can train and train all day long, but I’ll never be able to defeat him. He’ll just kill me like he kills everyone else and it’ll be like I never existed, but at least I won’t have it hanging around my neck anymore.”

“Must you wallow so? You are the _chosen one_ , are you not?” Apparently that was exactly the wrong thing to say. No sooner had the words ‘chosen one’ escaped his lips than tears began falling down Potter’s cheeks.

“Don’t say that,” he pleaded quietly. “It just makes it…worse.”

Snape saw the look on the man’s face, and, inexplicably, all he wanted to do was make it go away and never come back. “Mr. Potter, let me assure you that at no point did I ‘go easy on you’. It almost pains me to say this to you, but with the exception of Albus Dumbledore, no one, no one, has ever bested me with magic unless I allowed him or her to do so. I daresay, one day soon you will be a formidable match for the Dark Lord.” Snape paused for a moment before adding, “I could feel your magic, as well.”

Potter raised his head. “Blimey, really? I don’t get it—I’ve used that ‘strategy’, as you call it, before, but my magic was never that powerful.”

“Well, something must have changed. You spoke of loved ones—was the connection you felt stronger than before? Were you focusing on specific persons?” Snape asked, intrigued.

Potter cheeks instantly tinted pink. “Well, yes sir, I suppose so. But I’ve been told not to talk about it,” he added with a smirk. 

The insolence—the man was making fun of him! Snape had had just about enough of Potter’s tricks. “It is time for supper,” Snape announced, even though it was only 4:45, and swept into the kitchen.

He began rummaging in the pantry, but Potter stopped him. “You always cook, Professor. Let me do it tonight.”

“Surely you jest. I have no wish to experience indigestion for a week,” Snape retorted, remembering Potter’s frightful performances in Potions.

“Just trust me. I’ll make something good.” Snape made no move to acquiesce. “Just sit down, how bad could it be!” Potter entreated, and Snape reluctantly did as he was bidden.

He summoned a book from the sitting room to keep himself from studying the man as he cooked. This was a disaster in the making, he just knew it. 

Over an hour later, Potter placed a plate in from of him. The meal was as traditional as they come—Shepherd’s pie. Snape took a bite and involuntarily moaned. The lamb had been cooked to the perfect state of tenderness. In addition to the customary potatoes, he could taste mushroom, asparagus, carrots, onion, and a variety of spices. Snape identified garlic, rosemary, basil, and thyme before he gave up and dove into his food.

“I see it meets with your approval,” Potter said, grinning.

“However did you manage it? I’ve yet to encounter one so proficient with food, yet so inept with potions.”

Potter struggled to maintain his grin, but it faltered somewhat. “I’ve just had a lot of practice, I guess,” he answered, finally sitting down with his own plate.

They ate in silence. As soon as Snape had finished, Potter jumped up. “I’ve done dessert as well!” he announced, and brought out a small cheesecake. “Do you want strawberries or chocolate sauce with yours, sir?”

If the cheesecake was anywhere near as good as the main dish had been, it would truly be something to behold. “Do not be ridiculous. Both, of course.”

Potter cut slices for them and set the toppings out. Once Snape had finally garnished his perfectly, he took a bite and closed his eyes.

“Merlin, Potter, you will be the death of me.”


	17. Healing

That night, Snape puttered around with a few potions, but could not focus. He knew Potter would not be able to take any Dreamless Sleep tonight, and he found himself pausing every few minutes to listen for sounds of distress coming from across the hall.

By three in the morning, he was getting downright jittery. He had not heard anything at all, but decided to go check on Potter anyway. He began to open the door as quietly as possible, not wishing to disturb the man, but as soon as he could see into the room that was forgotten and he flung the door wide open.

Potter was thrashing about and he had his mouth open as if he were screaming, but there was no sound at all.

“ _Finite incantatum_ ,” Snape whispered, and suddenly he could he Potter pleading, “No, please, I don’t want…leave me alone…please.” He continued to struggle, like he was trying to fend off some unseen attacker.

“Potter, wake up,” Snape said, with no effect. He reached down and shook the man’s shoulder. Instantly, Potter opened his eyes. He jerked out of Snape’s grasp and backed away so quickly he almost fell off the other side of the bed.

“No, no leave me alone, leave me alone,” he muttered with a look of sheer terror in his eyes and raised his arm to protect his face.

“Mr. Potter, you are in no danger,” Snape said gently, and reached up to pull his arm down from his face. Potter’s eyes finally cleared and he seemed to recognize who was sitting in front of him at last.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought…I thought you were someone else,” he murmured ashamedly.

The man’s nightmares did not seem to be improving. Perhaps it was time he began to confront them, if only a little. “Who did you think was here, Harry?”

He sharply raised his head to meet Snape’s eyes. “No one.” Snape continued to look at him expectantly. “Uncle Vernon,” he said finally.

“Why did you cast the silencing spell? I thought we had moved past this.”

“Well I just didn’t want…I mean, you didn’t seem to…just didn’t want to be a bother.”

The man looked so frightened and ashamed and heartbroken and alone that Snape could not bear it and did not think twice about his next actions. “See that it does not happen again,” he said. Then he brushed a thumb over his cheek, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and pulled him back down into the bed.

Snape wrapped himself around the man and buried his nose in his neck to breathe him in.

“Like that scent, do you?” he asked jokingly, but before Snape could reply, added, “Thank you for staying.”

“Good night, Harry.”

“Good night, Prof…do I have to call you Professor right now? It just sort of feels wrong, you know?”

And for good reason, Snape thought, but was soon able to focus on pleasanter things. “No, not tonight.”

He could feel the body wrapped in his arms let out a breath. “Good night then…Severus.”

Snape woke a short while later. He sensed that it was not anywhere near time to get up yet. Then he realized what had woken him. Potter was leaning over him, gently caressing his face.

Snape grabbed his wrist. “Potter, what—”

“Harry.”

“Fine, Harry. What are you doing?”

Potter—Harry—smiled. “I’m touching you.”

“Yes, I had noticed that. _Why_?”

“Because I like the way your skin feels,” Harry answered with sincerity.

Snape could not help himself. He snaked a hand behind Harry’s neck and swiftly pulled him down into a kiss. Harry gasped, and Snape took the opportunity to devour him. He had been half-expecting him to taste of sticky peppermint, of innocence. He was pleased to note this was not the case—he detected only a hint of some flavor lingering from dinner, and the rest was something dark and subtle, something he would encounter nowhere else.

Only when his lungs were screaming for oxygen did Snape reluctantly pull back. When he saw the eyes above with were wide as a house elf’s, he realized what he had just done.

“Merlin, I’m sorry. I should never—”

“I’m glad you did, you just surprised me,” the man interrupted.

Snape knew they couldn’t be doing this, but he could not bring himself to leave. 

“Just go back to sleep, it is late.”

A few hours later, Snape drifted slowly out of a deep, contented sleep, and he could tell that it was morning this time.

He was on his back, and Harry was draped over him, snuggled up close. Snape could feel Harry’s half-hard cock pressing against his thigh and suppressed a moan.

Snape got the distinct feeling that he was falling, that he had tripped over something and was falling into Harry with ever-increasing velocity. It scared him beyond belief, but the oddest part was that he didn’t really want to stop.

Snape put aside exactly what it was he wanted at that moment and crawled out of bed to dress and start breakfast. Harry wandered out a little later and joined him.

At ten, they headed for the sitting room, where Snape began scanning the bookshelves. Finally finding what he was after, he handed it to Harry and said, “Today’s occlumency lesson will center on theory, rather than practice. Chapters eighteen to twenty-four.”

For the next few hours, they each sat on a sofa, reading their respective books. The silence was occasionally punctuated by questions like, “What in the world does vissilation mean?” which Snape generally answered by thrusting a dictionary in Harry’s direction.

At long last, Harry snapped his book closed and announced, “Done.”

Snape finished his chapter and set his book aside to find Harry looking at him expectantly. “Are you waiting for applause?”

“No, Se…sir. I can’t remember whose turn it is.”

Snape thought about it for a moment and realized he couldn’t either. “You may ask the first question today, if you wish.”

“Okay, um. Where do you live? I mean, you probably have a house somewhere, for when you’re not at school, right?”

“I do. I inherited the house I grew up in from my father. It is not the most pleasant place, and I much prefer my rooms at Hogwarts and spend almost all my time there. I still do not know why it was willed to me. I suppose my father simply forgot to officially disinherit me,” Snape answered, and a small frown formed. He was unused to answering questions with more information than was required. 

“Now that you have a house of your own, what do you intend to do?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t really want to live there—I don’t think I’d be able to handle that. But I suppose it would be better than Privet Drive…maybe. I wish I could just live at Hogwart’s all the time.”

“Harry, I think I can safely say that you will never be required to return to Privet Drive.” Snape was feeling somewhat uncomfortable, having just made a promise that some might argue with (though he meant every word of it), and picked up his book to replace it on the shelf. As he was sliding it into place, his fingers fumbled and he dropped it, giving himself a nasty paper cut in the process.

He put the book on the shelf and took out his wand to heal the cut, but Harry stopped him.

“Wait, can I try it? Is that okay?” Harry asked, rushing to his side.

Snape looked at him in slight disbelief. What was he up to? “I suppose.”

“Okay. I just want to see if I can do it. I hope I don’t hurt you or anything,” Harry responded and drew his wand.

Snape could feel Harry’s magic swirling around him. “ _Vigoratus_ ,” the man said, and an instant feeling of well-being swept over Snape. He checked his finger—he could not tell there had ever been a cut there. He also noticed a slight ache he had felt in his lower back for the last few days was gone, as was the tension that had taken up residence in his chest so long ago he had forgotten it was there. If he’d had a mirror, he might also have seen that several worry lines left his face and he stood a wee bit straighter.

He turned toward Harry and stumbled, almost lightheaded from the feeling of freedom he had. What exactly had the man done to him? Then it dawned on him. He turned away from Harry and quickly rolled up his left shirtsleeve. His skin was as unmarred as the day he was born.

He grabbed Harry roughly by the shoulders. “What have you done?” he demanded.

“I…I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Did I make it worse or something? I’m so sorry.”

“Do you see this?” Snape asked, and held up his forearm for the man to inspect. Harry narrowed his eyes, looking for something wrong, then his eyes went wide.

“Merlin, it’s gone! Did I just do that?”

Snape felt like dancing, and the foreign sensation left him speechless.

“You should do that more often, you know. It looks good on you.”

Confused, Snape asked, “To what are you referring?”

“You’re smiling,” Harry answered, his own smile lighting up his face.

Without a thought, Snape pulled him into a crushing embrace, and whispered, “Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome, Pro…Severus,” Harry replied and relaxed into his arms.


	18. Small Favours

Snape sat on the couch in shock. He wanted to…he didn’t quite know what he wanted to do. He wanted to shout with joy. He wanted to learn how to drive a muggle car. He wanted to buy something very expensive and totally useless. He wanted to quit his job and tour the world. 

In the two-and-a-half weeks since he’d been discovered as a spy, he had felt no relief whatsoever. He knew the moment he left the safe house and the singular protection it afforded, the Dark Lord would be free to slowly and painfully drain his magic through the Dark Mark cut into his skin. He had seen it happen to others who had disappointed the Dark Lord, and just watching was like having his heart carved out. To be left empty, without his magic, had seemed a fate worse than death.

Now that possibility had unexpectedly vanished, and he was truly free of the megalomaniacal bastard’s decades-long hold over him.

“Are you okay, sir? If you don’t stop grinning, I’ll have no choice but to drag you off to St. Mungo’s,” Harry said jokingly. “How do you feel?” he added seriously.

Feel? He felt so many things. He _felt_ —that in itself was a bit of a shock. “I feel…light.”

Harry had moved very close to him, checking that he was all right. Snape reached out a hand toward Harry’s face and stroked his cheek. “You—” 

The next thing he knew, Harry’s mouth was crushing against his, and he sighed at the recognition of that flavor he’d been unconsciously craving for the last day. Harry’s fingers snaked into his hair, and when they had to pause for a breath, he heard a murmured, “So soft…”

Snape’s hands moved over Harry’s shoulders to his back to pull him closer, and he fell right into Snape’s lap. Harry was frantically trying to remove Snape’s robes, but the copious, tiny buttons were proving too much for him. Snape undid them with a flick of his wand, and Harry began peeling the layers off.

Snape slipped his hands under Harry’s robes and snaked them around his lithe body to slide his fingers under the back waistband of his trousers.

At this, Harry gave a loud gasp and went rigid. Utterly foolish! Snape berated himself, instantly withdrawing his hands. Of course the man would not want anyone touching him there. He turned his head away, ashamed at his lack of control.

“No, it’s okay,” Harry said, recovering from his shock. “Come back,” he whispered, and Snape could feel his hot breath against his neck. Harry kissed a searing trail across his collarbone down to his now bare chest. He undid Snape’s trousers and placed a few maddening kisses and licks along his aching cock. It was apparent he had no clear idea what more to do in that arena, and moved up to resume his titillating exploration of Snape’s chest.

Snape, not one to be passive for long, finally got Harry’s clothing off and groaned at the skin-to-skin contact for which he had been yearning. They rocked against each other, gasping for air, and Snape’s elegant fingers wrapped around Harry. He made sure to be very gentle and to stay far away from the man’s backside.

In what seemed like only a matter of seconds they slumped together, delightfully sated, and simply breathed.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry panted. “I didn’t know…I had no idea. That felt so _good_ , so right.”

Snape had to admit, it did feel right. He had never expected to feel pleasure like this again—he wasn’t sure he _ever_ had. He just was not the sort of person to experience such things. But this man, who felt so right pressed against him, had given him that.

He knew it would not last, that this fit of charity would pass and he would be alone once more, locked in his shell. He knew the best thing for him to do, the best way to shield his now fragile and exposed heart, was to crawl back behind his walls and protect himself. 

But it was his day of liberation, and he would allow himself to revel in it for the moment, consequences be damned.

“Severus?”

“Mm?”

“Let’s go to bed.”

He stood and led Harry to his room (if he noticed Harry’s eyes widen at this, he gave no sign), thought a few wandless cleaning charms, and pulled him into the bed.


	19. The Truth

He drifted slowly back to consciousness to find himself gazing into a pair of eyes that seemed to see right through him, right _into_ him. He tore his eyes away to take in the sight of the naked body—what wasn’t covered by the sheet—laid out next to him. Harry was not tan by any stretch of the imagination, but he looked positively golden next to Snape’s pallid complexion. 

“I thought you were never going to wake up. I was about to check your pulse.”

How did he have the wherewithal to be cheeky so early in the morning? “Go back to sleep,” Snape grumbled. Right now, the only thing he wanted in the world was to lie in this bed with this man beside him and never get up.

“You do realize it’s almost noon, right?”

Snape propped himself up on his elbows. This made no sense. He hadn’t slept for more than six hours at a stretch in…he couldn’t even remember the last time. “What?”

“I _said_ —it’s time to wake up,” Harry answered, and leaned over to brush a lock of hair behind Snape’s ear. “Not greasy,” he added, almost to himself.

“No,” was Snape’s only reply.

“So why does everyone think it is?” he asked, still sounding like he was conversing with himself.

“People see what they expect to see. The evil, ugly, greasy, bat of a Potions Master,” he answered impassively.

“That’s not what I see.” He had an unfathomable look in his eyes, one that made Snape wince, almost like it was burning him. Snape didn’t understand—What else was there to see? Anyone with eyes could see what he was.

His thoughts must have been written all over his face, because Harry answered his unasked question. “I see a passionate, powerful, selfless man. I see a man who has never been properly loved in his life, and who deserves it more than anyone else.” 

I was right, Snape thought, he feels sorry for me. He couldn’t bear to see Harry pity him and closed his eyes.

“I see a man who cares, who has helped me so much,” Harry finished.

“Well, someone has to see you through long enough to fulfill your destiny,” Snape said dejectedly, cursing inwardly for having let himself become so vulnerable. He knew this was a mistake from the start.

“That was it?” Harry whispered. When Snape finally looked at him, he thought the man might be about to cry. “That’s why? I should have known. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

And then Harry was gathering a sheet around his waist and leaving. What had happened? What had he said? Who was he fooling—he didn’t have to say anything, it had been inevitable. He sighed.

Showered and dressed, he braved the kitchen, fully prepared to act as if nothing untoward had happened. He was, after all, one of the best occlumens in the world, and it was high time he acted like it. He ate a piece of toast, made a cup of tea, and finally entered the sitting room.

As he had feared, he was there, sitting on the couch, waiting.

“If you would like to study Charms today, Mr. Potter, there is an excellent text I could recommend.”

“Back to Mr. Potter, are we? And no, I don’t think I’ll be studying anything today. You’re the one who slept through our usual lesson time, if you remember,” he responded defiantly.

“I cannot argue with that,” Snape said, and sat down with the book he had started reading the day before. He noticed Harry open his mouth to speak, then close it again. Oh no, he thought, we are not starting in on that infernal, juvenile game again. Look where it had gotten him already. No, getting to know Harry better was doing him no favours at all. He was fully prepared not to answer any of the man’s questions, when he finally spoke.

“Do you have a real harp somewhere, like at Hogwart’s? One that was made without magic, I mean.”

The question was so unexpected that he found himself answering, despite his earlier resolve. “I do. It was my mother’s.”

“I’d like to hear you play it some day, if you don’t mind.”

He did indeed mind, but as the man hadn’t really asked a question, he did not feel required to respond. He knew it was his turn to ask a question, but he didn’t want to, he really did not. But he couldn’t stop himself.

“Why did you run away?” He had meant it to be snide and accusatory, but somehow it just came out sounding pathetic.

“You know very well,” he replied, brooding. 

“Just answer he question,” Snape demanded, though he was fairly certain he did not want to hear what he would say.

“No! Why do you always have to do this—try to make me feel so small and inferior? I may look like my father, and I know I act like him sometimes too, but I am _not_ him. I’ve never done anything to you to deserve your constant ridicule!” Harry shouted, though he looked like he was about to burst into tears. “But this, I mean…this is low even for you,” he said, no longer screaming.

“To what are you referring?” Snape asked. Harry just looked at him. “Come now, if you will not answer my previous question, you must at least answer this one.”

The tears welling in Harry’s eyes finally began to fall. “You made me think you cared. But you just cared about the same thing everyone else cares about—making sure the Boy Who Lived keeps on living long enough to become the Boy Who Narrowly Defeated He Who Must Not Be Named So We Could All Go Back To Living Our Pathetic Lives As Usual!”

Snape was shocked, despite himself. Did he really believe that? Hadn’t Snape been the only one who treated him like any other student, the one who refused to pamper him? “That is not true,” he said simply.

“Isn’t it?” Harry snapped accusingly.

“It is not. I have answered all of your questions thus far truthfully; I will not start lying now.”

“Rubbish! You’ve spent your whole life lying, you’ve been lying so long you wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and bit you in the arse! You’re so good at it you even lie to yourself.”

Snape had to bite back the instinct to snap, ‘Language, Mr. Potter—Ten points from Gryffindor.’ Instead, he settled on, “Believe what you will.”

Only a lifetime of practice allowed him to keep his anguish and his anger in check. He cast a warming charm on his untouched tea and took a sip. He told himself he was simply thirsty and in need of caffeine, but mostly he needed to stall so he could gather his thoughts. And damn it to hell if the brat wasn’t right—he was lying to himself, and about something as inconsequential as tea, for Merlin’s sake. He sighed. He just needed to end this as gracefully as possible.

“I’m sorry…Harry. I should never have allowed this to happen. The entire situation is highly inappropriate, and probably against at least half a dozen school rules. I take full responsibility.”

“Haven’t you ever read _Hogwarts: A History_?” Harry asked.

Snape quirked an eyebrow. “Have _you_?”

“Well…no,” Harry admitted, “but I have had the whole thing read out to me at one point or another by Hermione, and student-teacher relationships are not against any rules. You know…just so you know,” he finished awkwardly.

“Even so, the impropriety is considerable.” For some reason, while Snape needed to push Harry away, he desperately wanted to do it without hurting him any more.

“Do you care? About me, just Harry, all by myself?”

Care? That did not even begin to cover it. “Of course.”

Harry narrowed his eyes as if attempting to ascertain whether Snape was being truthful. He got up and stood in front of Snape, tugging his sleeve until Snape stood too. “Really? Please, please just tell me the truth.”

Snape did not want to answer. This was getting far too uncomfortable. He could imagine what would happen if he answered—Harry would laugh, make fun of him, leave him standing there all alone. But when he looked down into those piercing green eyes, they were pleading with him and he could not deny them. 

“Yes.”

“Good,” Harry said, and immediately pulled Snape’s body up against his own. He stood on his toes and pressed his lips against Snape’s, threading his fingers through his long, dark hair.

Snape could not help himself—his tongue darted out to lick Harry’s lower lip, and when Harry’s mouth opened to allow him entrance, he moaned.

Harry pulled back after a moment and rested his head on Snape’s shoulder, breathing heavily. “Can we take this, you know, some place more…”

Snape grabbed Harry by the hand and led him to his bed.

Harry pulled out his wand and muttered, “ _Divesto_.”

All of their clothing was suddenly in a heap on the floor. Snape’s eyes widened. “How did you know—”

“You forget that I live nine months of the year in a room full of teenage boys,” Harry explained and leaned up to kiss Snape again. He could feel Harry’s erection pressing into his thigh and reached down.

“No, let me. Please.”

Snape acquiesced and allowed himself to be pushed back onto the bed, at which point Harry proceeded to torture him with teasing bites and licks and kisses all over his torso. Finally, he got to the heart of the matter and took Snape into his mouth.

He didn’t try anything fancy with his tongue or his hands, which was perfectly fine with Snape, as the hot, wet mouth sucking up and down his throbbing prick was more than enough to make him come.

In the moments after, when he was scarcely capable of thought, much less muscle control, Harry rolled him over onto his stomach to continue his oral exploration of Snape’s body. It was almost as if Harry was worshiping his body—an experience that was entirely foreign to Snape. His tongue and lips and teeth moved all around Snape’s back, but when they came to the area around his right shoulder blade, Snape started and quickly rolled over.

“What, what’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?” Harry asked innocently.

“I just…I didn’t want you to see,” Snape answered, his shame and lack of control eating away at him.

“See what? There was nothing to see.” Harry furrowed his brow.

“My…scars, I didn’t want you to see.”

“Severus, there’s no scar. There aren’t any scars,” Harry reassured.

None? That was ridiculous—Snape knew he had hundreds of scars, though none plagued him like those particular ones. Then a thought occurred to him—was it possible? He reached around, trying to see if he could feel them there. He twisted quite a bit, but he could feel no evidence of them. 

“Merlin, Harry, did you manage to heal _everything_?” he asked.

“I don’t know, maybe. What was it…where did you get it?” Harry asked hesitantly. “Will you tell me?”

Snape could remember it clear as day, though he had many times wished that were not the case. After his mother had died, Snape had found her harp and hidden it in his room. He cherished it, because only when he played it did he feel close to her again. But one evening in the summer after his fourth year, his father had come home from the pub earlier than usual and caught him playing.

He could remember the look of disgust in his father’s eyes when he’d pulled out his pocketknife and ordered him to take off his shirt and turn around. He could remember the disdain in his voice when he’d said that no son of his would be playing a harp, that was for girls and it was high time for his son to grow up and be a man. He could remember the warm trickle of blood down his back as his father carved the words ‘PATHETIC’ and ‘SISSY’ into his skin. It wasn’t very long after that incident that Snape became a Death Eater, convinced that he needed to prove himself and that somehow this would allow him to do it.

He only realized there were tears flowing down his cheeks when Harry reached over to brush them away. He was crying—he hadn’t cried in twenty-eight years. What was Harry doing to him? Harry held his jaw and forced Snape to look at him.

“My father,” was all he said.

“Well, I know a bit about what it’s like to have your family turn on you. I understand if you don’t want to, but I hope you’ll eventually tell me what happened. I’ve discovered that it helps just knowing that someone else knows,” Harry said with a sad smile.

Snape nodded. Maybe one day he _would_ tell Harry, but not today.


	20. The Outside World

Snape woke in the middle of the night. The first thing he noticed was that he was alone. Again, inevitably, his mind supplied. The second realization was that he was starving. As he had only had a piece of toast the day before, he supposed that was to be expected. Then a scent that was almost sinfully delicious hit him.

He quickly donned his dressing gown and went to the kitchen, just in time to see Harry, who was standing over the stove, drop something and exclaim, “Merlin’s shorts!” Snape deftly stopped the object from hitting the floor and levitated it back to the countertop.

“I do not believe Merlin would appreciate you speculating about his choice in undergarments.”

“Well, it was the nutmeg, you see,” Harry explained, smiling brightly, and Snape felt like something was tugging at his heart. “Want some French toast? We sort of skipped supper last night.”

“Indeed we did. I admit, I am famished,” Snape said. “Do you require assistance?”

“No…Well, would you mind checking the pantry for some confectioner’s sugar? I didn’t see any, but it really completes the dish, you know?”

Snape smirked. “Certainly. _Accio confectioner’s sugar_ ,” he said, and a box zoomed out of the pantry into his hand. 

“Why do I never think to just use magic? I guess growing up muggle can do that to you.” He paused. “Hey, was that wandless, or did I just not see?”

Snape reached for a pocket of his dressing gown to pull out his wand, which had been inside it since he left his room, and show it to Harry.

“Wow,” Harry said. “Do something else.”

Harry seemed to have completely forgotten about the food on the stove. Based on the smell, however, Snape believed it was ready. He placed his wand on the table in plain sight, then nonverbally levitated the toast out of the pan and onto plates, then levitated the plates over to the table. For good measure, he also got forks, butter, and syrup, and transfigured the box of sugar to a shaker. Harry was just staring at him with his mouth open. Snape gave a small smirk and magically tugged on Harry’s bathrobe until he got the hint and sat down at the table.

“Wandless and wordless? Now you’re just showing off. But no kidding, you’ve got to teach me how to do that,” Harry announced, before he remembered himself and added, “You know, if you don’t mind.”

“It is rather a useful skill.”

So the next day, they spent several hours practicing wandless magic. It was quite difficult for Harry, until he remembered the powerful magic he’d discovered recently and tried to tap into it.

At the time, the task he was attempting was to cast a warming charm on a cup of tea. This time, the tea began boiling over, and the teacup shattered.

“I take it you finally decided to think of your loved ones. I shall have to attempt to teach you to control your magic better if these rooms are to remain intact.”

At that moment, there was a loud crack, and both men snatched their wands from their holsters and spun to face the intruder.

But all they saw was a piece of parchment drifting to the ground. Snape bent to pick it up and saw ‘Severus and Harry’ written on the outside in Dumbledore’s distinctive hand. He unfolded it and allowed Harry to read beside him, as it had been addressed to him as well.  
 _  
Dear Severus and Harry,_

_I trust you are having an agreeable summer thus far. I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy, but I thought you might appreciate a bit of news. Alas, this will likely be the only time I will be able to provide any until the start of term._

_I have had little luck identifying source who named you as a spy to Voldemort, Severus. The list has been narrowed down somewhat, however, and I have no doubt that the culprit will soon be discovered._

_The Weasleys and Miss Granger wish to convey their greetings and wishes for your safety and happiness to you, Harry. They also wish me to apologize on their behalf for their obligatory absence on your upcoming birthday._

_Hoping you are able to refrain from hexing one another,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_P.S.—This letter will automatically disapparate back to this location after ten minutes. If you wish to tell me anything, you may write it on the back of this parchment.  
_  
Snape immediately summoned a quill and began to write.  
 _  
Headmaster—_

_We are well. You should know that Mr. Potter has somehow managed to ‘heal’ my Dark Mark, and thus, you need not concern yourself about removing me from this location._

_SS  
_  
He had briefly considered adding, ‘Please find the bastard who exposed me soon so I can decapitate him,’ but decided it might not actually entice the headmaster to hasten the search.

He turned to Harry. “Do you wish to add anything? I believe we have approximately three minutes left.”

Harry nodded and took the parchment and quill. Snape felt a flicker of panic that Harry might tell the headmaster what had happened between them and watched what he wrote very carefully.  
 _  
Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_We are doing just fine, thanks. Don’t worry, I only hexed him when he told me to._

_Please tell everyone that I miss them too, and that I’ll see them soon. And could you please give Hedwig a treat for me?_

_Also, I wanted to tell you that you were right._

_Harry  
_  
Snape raised his eyebrow at the last sentence, but did not say anything. It seemed innocuous enough.

Not a moment after Harry had refolded the parchment, it disappeared with a crack.

“Man, that was weird,” Harry said, sitting on the sofa.

“To what are you referring?” Snape asked.

“Being locked away in here for three weeks, and then getting that letter out of nowhere. I’d almost forgotten there were other people out there, that things were still happening without us,” Harry explained.

Snape knew exactly what he meant. He, too, had started to feel as if the entire world were contained in these five rooms. The thought made him feel foolish and he scowled. “Arrogant, as ever. Yes, it may come as a shock, but the world does not actually revolve around you.”

“Oh, come off it. You know that’s not what I meant,” Harry replied good-naturedly.

Snape’s instinct was to snap, ‘Watch your tongue!’ but he was startlingly pleased that Harry felt comfortable enough with him to say something like that and let it go.

“Do you think Dumbledore’s going to catch whoever it was?” Harry asked.

“If anyone does, it will be him. I cannot wait to point my wand at the bastard. He did not just expose me—he put you and everyone else on our side and all our hard work in jeopardy as well.” Harry did not reply, and Snape knew that they had shifted from idle conversation into their question and answer game.

“What did you mean when you told the headmaster he was right?” Snape asked.

Harry grinned “Well, right before he sent me here, I was complaining about having to spend my whole summer locked up with _you_ , of all people.” Snape glared at him. “Yeah, sorry about that. Anyway, he said to me—” Harry paused to do an imitation of Dumbledore’s caring and knowing look. “ ‘Professor Snape is not the man you think he is. The two of you have more in common than you could imagine, and I am certain if you just give him a chance, you will find you get on very well,’ all the while twinkling like there was no tomorrow.”

“Yes, he has a deplorable tendency to twinkle,” Snape interjected.

“Like mad. Anyway, I just wanted to tell him that, of course, he was right.”


	21. Accompany Me

After supper, Snape went to his room to brew a few potions and make some notes on the Dream-filled Sleep potion. Afterward, he took up his customary position across from Harry in the sitting room and the two read for a while.

When it got close to the time they usually went to bed, Harry started fidgeting.

Finally, Snape sighed and asked, “What is the matter? Have you been hit with an itching hex?”

Harry looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, no. It’s just…it’s about bedtime, isn’t it?”

“If you are tired, then go to bed. Where is the problem?”

“Aren’t you going to go to bed, too?” Harry asked shyly.

“I suppose,” Snape answered. Then he fully took in the expression on Harry’s face. He looked simultaneously fearful and hopeful. He was fairly certain he knew what the look was about, but not completely. He decided to take the chance.

“Yes, I am.” He added quietly, “You may join me if you wish.” When a smile lit up Harry’s face, Snape wanted nothing more than to devour that happy little mouth.

“Come,” he said, and took Harry by the hand. 

When they got to the bedroom, Harry looked around nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Do not be anxious. You may be assured that no harm will ever befall you at my hand,” Snape reassured.

“I know. I trust you. I’m just a little nervous still,” Harry said with a sheepish smile.

Snape was somewhat taken aback at the unreserved admission of trust. No one besides Albus had ever trusted him—he was not a trustworthy man. How this young man, who had endured so much hurt and betrayal, could trust him was beyond Snape, but he was grateful nonetheless.

“I believe you were somewhat neglected last night. I wish to make it up to you,” Snape said, his voice husky, and caressed Harry’s face. Slowly, they shed their clothing and tumbled into the bed, where Snape proceeded to explore every inch of Harry’s body with his nimble fingers. He was convinced Harry would come to his senses sooner rather than later, and he wanted to relish this while he could. He kept reminding himself to be gentle—this was not the kind of love-making he was used to, though he was reasonably sure the activities he’d engaged in previously could not accurately be called love-making at all.

Once he had Harry writhing and whimpering beneath him, Snape finally turned to the one piece of anatomy he had neglected. With somewhat more finesse than Harry had displayed the night before, he took Harry into his mouth. In no time at all, Snape could feel the supple body tensing. He gave a few quick tugs to his own throbbing cock and came shortly after Harry.

When he could move again, Snape crawled up to give Harry a gentle kiss and gather him into his arms.

After a few minutes, he heard a tentative, “Professor?”

Snape tensed immediately, and for a moment he thought he might be sick. He felt disgusted with himself and pulled away from Harry to sit up.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked. “I was just checking to see if you were asleep.”

“Please do not call me that,” Snape replied softly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it. Please don’t feel bad about this…Severus. You are my professor, and there’s nothing I can do to change that, but I already told you it isn’t against the rules. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Snape knew Harry was right. He knew he was. “Then why do I still feel like I am taking advantage of you?”

He realized he had voiced his thoughts when Harry responded. “I don’t know, but you’re not. I want to be with you so badly. I feel…safe, when I’m with you. I feel…cared for. Please don’t push me away.”

Harry sounded so dejected by the time he was finished that Snape could not help sweeping him into a hug. He wanted to make everything all right, he wanted to make promises, but he knew himself too well. “I shall do my best. My very best.”

The next morning at ten sharp, they began their occlumency lesson.

Snape was pleasantly surprised by what he encountered. A series of memories flooded into his mind, and if he had not known better, he would have assumed there was nothing more to see. He saw Harry walking through a corridor at Hogwarts, swinging at a playground as a child, brushing his teeth, writing an essay in the Gryffindor common room.

He poked and prodded, but the façade was complete indeed. He could not find a single weak place where he could push through, even after several minutes.

He ended the spell and quirked an eyebrow at Harry, who sat on the couch looking proud of himself. “Turns out my reading assignment the other day was very helpful,” Harry explained.

“Indeed. I daresay you no longer need my help, as far as occlumency goes—your current level of mastery is more than sufficient.”

“Well thanks for that glowing endorsement,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes and smiling.

“Yes, well. There is a potion I would like to brew this afternoon. You may accompany me if you wish.”

“Sure,” Harry answered, and they rose. “Do you want a cup of tea?” he asked when they passed through the kitchen. Snape nodded his assent.

“Okay, I’ll be right there,” Harry said and turned to the stove. 

Snape went on to his room and began preparing the cauldron. He had a good feeling about this batch—today was the day it would finally be successful.

A few minutes later, Harry entered with two cups of tea. Snape took one, and started getting out all the tools and ingredients he would need, lining them up neatly on the table.

“Will you get distracted if we talk? Is it a very complicated one?” Harry asked from the chair in which he had perched himself.

“It is quite complicated, but I am more than capable of dividing my attention without ruining it,” Snape answered with a smile in his voice, if not on his face.

“Good. Do you have any idea whose turn it is?”

“I am uncertain, but I believe it is your turn,” Snape replied. He thought, ‘ _Incendio_ ,’ to kindle the flame beneath his cauldron.

“Okay. Is Draco Malfoy really your godson? Popular opinion says he is.”

Snape scoffed. “Hardly. Lucius does not trust me as far as he can Imperius me—which is little distance indeed—and never has. Certainly not with his precious heir.” He began chopping a few ingredients. “Are Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger…involved?”

“Not yet,” Harry snickered. “It’s only a matter of time before they realize they’re madly in love, though. When’s your birthday?”

“January ninth,” Snape answered. He found that Harry was still looking at him expectantly, and added, “1960,” with as much dignity as he could muster. Eager to move on, he asked, “What year was your favorite birthday?”

“Definitely when I turned eleven. It was the day Hagrid finally found me and gave me my first Hogwarts letter. And it was the first time I ever had a birthday cake, or a present—he bought Hedwig for me. What’s the best birthday present you ever got?”

Snape wondered exactly how honest he should be, and decided he might as well tell the truth. He had promised, after all. “It was not a present, per se, but it was certainly a gift. The night before my thirteenth birthday, my father was arrested by the muggle police—something to do with public drunkenness—and spent the next two days in jail, allowing me to spend my birthday alone, in peace.”

Snape was struggling to stay detached, to not become infuriated that Harry had not received a single birthday present until he was eleven, and he could tell that Harry was having a similar problem. He changed the subject by asking, “How did you do on your OWLs?”

He could see Harry’s face fall. “Well, okay I guess. The only O I got was DADA. Es in Transfiguration, Charms, Care of Magical Creatures, and Herbology. I managed an A in Astronomy, barely. And I failed two—Divination with a P and History of Magic with a D.”

Snape immediately noticed that he was leaving his Potions grade out, and scowled at him until he continued.

“And an E in Potions,” Harry finally said, looking at his lap.

Why was he so embarrassed about an E? Frankly, it was better than Snape had expected, given his performance in class. “Why should you care so much about your Potions score? I thought you no longer harbored ambitions of becoming an auror.”

“Well, I don’t. But I was finally beginning to understand what was going on, and now I won’t be able to take it anymore. Most of the time I felt like a brain-damaged hippogriff in Potions, but the times I actually understood the potion, it was kind of fun. That, and I hate you thinking I’m stupid,” Harry said to his knees.

“I may have said it a few times, but I never believed you to be stupid. We will be certain to include Potions in our lessons for the rest of the summer, and if you truly wish to continue in Potions, you may file a petition with the headmaster when school resumes. Assuming I am able to return, I shall allow you into the class if I feel you have progressed far enough.”

“Really?” Harry asked, clearly shocked. “Thanks. How did your OWLs come out then?”

Snape struggled to remember all his scores. “I received Os in Potions, Transfiguration, Defense, and Herbology; Es in Charms, Astronomy, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and History of Magic; and an A in Divination. If memory serves—Charms may have been an O, I am not certain,” he added.

“Blimey, now I really feel like an idiot,” Harry said, but he was smiling.

Snape marveled at their conversation. It was comfortable, and both of them were willingly participating. He did not know what it was about Harry that made him feel so at ease, but enjoyed it. They continued talking for a couple of hours.

“Severus? Severus, what are you so zoned out about?” Harry asked.

Snape had been absorbed in checking the potion to ensure that everything had come out properly. He finished his inspection, turned to Harry, and pronounced, “It is finished.”


	22. Happy Little Cloud

“What’s finished, what are you making?” Harry asked, peering into the cauldron.

“The potion you invented—Dream-filled Sleep.”

“What, you actually got it to work?” he asked, shocked.

“I cannot be certain until it is tested,” Snape replied.

“But you think you did, right?”

“Yes, I believe so,” he answered, suppressing a smile. He turned to Harry. “I thank you for its conception. It was…you are…never has anyone…” He faltered. “I thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. But really it was all you—mine wasn’t even close to working. More than likely, it would’ve killed you,” Harry said, smiling.

“That is quite true. Nonetheless, it owes its existence entirely to you,” Snape replied and retrieved several crystal vials from the cupboard. He decanted the potion as if it were liquid gold, careful not to waste a single drop. At that thought, he could not help reminding himself that liquid gold should always be stored in silver-lined vials and poured into them only in the dark.

That night, Harry followed Snape into his room without being asked and changed into his pajamas. 

Snape sat on the bed, staring at the potion vial in his hand. He was unaccountably apprehensive about taking it. What if it did not work? What if it _did_?

Shaking his head, he forced his anxiety aside and downed it. Without a word, he lay on his side and gathered Harry into his arms.

“Good luck,” Harry whispered.  
 _  
Snape stood in the middle of the circle and cringed inwardly. It was his turn again. He hated that phrase, the way the Dark Lord said, “It’s your turn, dear Severus,” as if it were a privilege, a reward. It had happened a few times since his Marking Ceremony last year, but he would never get used to it._

_The Dark Lord raised his wand and Snape’s robes disappeared. Then he felt a searing pain fill his body and dropped to his hands and knees._

_“Who would like to go first? Lucius—you have served me well this week, you may have the honor.”_

_“Thank you, my Lord,” Lucius answered, his eyes flashing._

_Snape retreated into his mind for the next hour or so, trying to ignore the various pairs of hands roughly grabbing his body and yanking his hair, the teeth biting into his back and shoulders, the violation. He did not make a sound, even when some used spells to make angry red marks on him like a whip or cuts like a knife. Next to the repeated penetrations, they did not even hurt._

_A few times, he felt his cock twitch involuntarily, and he hated himself for it._

_“You do not look as if you have enjoyed yourself, Severus,” the Dark Lord said once everyone had had his turn. “Come to me, and I will help you.”_

_Automatically, Snape replied, “Thank you, my Lord,” and crawled toward him to kiss the hem of his robes. His Lord gathered him into his lap, and Snape forced himself to make grateful noises while he was stroked to completion. It was all he could do not to vomit._

_“There now, that was better, was it not?”  
_  
“Severus.”  
 _  
“Yes, my Lord, I am most grateful.”  
_  
“Severus!”

Snape felt yet another hand touching him and fought down a wave of nausea. He was curled up, tense and shaking. 

“Severus, please.”

He opened his eyes and saw a figure looming above him. Before his next breath, he had his wand pointed at the figure’s chest.

“Whoa, whoa, take it easy. It’s me, it’s Harry,” the figure pleaded. “It’s okay, it was just a dream. You’re okay.”

The hand returned to his shoulder and he tensed. But it was soothing him, caressing him—there was no pain.

“Harry,” he said, lowering his wand. His shaking intensified.

“Yes, I’m here, everything is fine. It was only a nightmare,” Harry murmured. He felt Harry’s body curl around his back to hold him. He felt Harry’s fingers in his hair, stroking. Slowly, he felt the terror and loathing retreat.

“Your first dream in so long, and it had to be a nightmare. I’m sorry,” Harry said sadly.

A dream. Yes, a dream—not the horrible memory of his Death Eater days.

“I had a dream, too…before,” he heard himself say.

“What was it about?”

“I was flying. Not on a broom—just me, flying through the air. I could see everything, everything was so bright. The sun was bright and hot, too bright. Then the air turned into water. I was in the water, flying through the water.” Snape knew he sounded foolish, but he was still heavy with sleep, and the dream was returning in fits and starts.

“Yes, what else?” Harry asked.

“I was flying through the water, and then the fishes came. They were beautiful. One came up to me and asked me what I was doing there. ‘You don’t belong here,’ he said, ‘You’re a bird—go back to the sky.’ I told them I did not wish to go back, that the sun was too bright and it was lonely there. But they seemed like such wise little fishes, so I did. I flew back up to the air, but I missed the fishes. Then I saw a little cloud up above me. Not a rain cloud, a happy little cloud. And it followed me, keeping me safe, protecting me from the sun. It never left me.”

“That sounds like a lovely dream,” Harry said.

Snape could feel that sleep was about to overwhelm him again.

“My little cloud,” he muttered.


	23. In the Event of Imminent Death

Snape stood at the kitchen counter, quietly preparing dinner. He set a simmering charm on the pan, and turned away while it cooked.

He absently studied the drapes framing the window in the small breakfast nook. They were sky blue, with bright oranges, limes, and lemons scattered randomly. Certainly not what Snape would have chosen himself. But, he thought, if they make him happy, I can have no objection.

The idea of his domestic happiness simultaneously made him smile and feel very uncomfortable. This small, tucked away cottage was perfect. It was too perfect. Snape knew he was undeserving of such charming surroundings, yet here he was.

The timer he had set went off, forcing him out of his musings, and he countered the simmering spell on the skillet. As he stirred the contents, he felt a pair of arms wrap around him from behind.

He quickly spun around to make contact with a pair of bright green eyes. He smiled.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Got held up.” The man tightened his grip on Snape and laid his head on Snape’s shoulder before continuing. 

“It’s good to be home. I love you, Severus. Mmm, that smells wonderful.”

Snape heard the distant sound of a teakettle whistling. He did not remember putting any water on for tea, and wondered if he might be hearing something else. No, there was no mistaking that sound. But it sounded almost as if it were coming through the window over the sink. 

He turned to investigate and found himself face to face with a pillow. He blinked rapidly for a moment, trying to get his bearings. For a few painful seconds, the only thought in his mind was that the pillow before him was completely unoccupied. 

The cessation of the teakettle’s whistling brought him back to himself. He forced himself to stop thinking about what he now realized had been a dream. Snape suppressed a pang of—Of what…regret, disappointment, heartache? He scoffed at the absurdity—and went about his morning routine.

“Good morning,” Harry said brightly when Snape entered the kitchen and handed him a cup of tea. Snape scowled as he took it and Harry’s face fell. “Rough night?”

He didn’t know the half of it. Snape gave a stiff nod, then caught himself and shook his head. “It was nothing.”

“What happened in your nightmare? Do you wanna talk about it?” Harry asked.

Not bloody likely. “No, not in the slightest,” Snape snapped. He heard the venom in his voice, and it seemed Harry did as well.

“You don’t have to bite my head off, I was only trying to help,” Harry retorted. Snape had to struggle not to make a snide remark. They sipped their tea and ate their muffins in silence.

They had finished their breakfast and Snape was staring at the wall next to the small table, wondering what sort of draperies he might be looking at if there had been a window.

Only years of being a spy kept Snape from jumping out of his skin when Harry suddenly said, “It’s nearly ten.” 

And so it was. “Very well. Your lesson today will be in Defense,” Snape said and swept into the sitting room.

“We will begin with shield spells—wandless shield spells.” Harry’s eyes widened, but his look turned quickly from apprehension to determination.

Snape aimed minor jinxes at Harry until he could successfully deflect most of them. He was surprised that it had taken Harry only an hour to do so, but kept the sentiment to himself.

“That will do for now. In the next lesson, I shall use spells that could actually hurt you, so be prepared. For now, read this.” He summoned a book from the shelf and handed it to Harry.

The title took up almost the entire cover. “ _What To Do When One Finds Oneself in a Situation Requiring Evasion, Deflection, or Other Means of Defending Against a Curse, Hex, or Jinx Previously Unknown to Oneself Whilst Dueling an Opponent_ ,” Harry read aloud and smirked.

“Yes, it is quite a mouthful, though I assure you, while the book is written with roughly as much finesse as its title, it contains valuable information. I shall be checking your comprehension during our next lesson, and I do not mean by asking questions.” Snape let his ominous tone reverberate for a moment, then settled on the couch with his own book.

After an hour or so, Snape heard a tentative, “Sir?” and tried not to shudder.

The effort was almost entirely successful, but his mind was still in turmoil behind his impassive face. He hated the way the honorific made him feel, but he had to admit it was appropriate. He was the professor here, and they _were_ in the middle of a lesson. That, and he was old enough to be Harry’s father. He considered that he should probably not call him Harry during lessons.

“Professor?”

That was too much. “Stop! I cannot…” he began. But he decided he should not throw all decorum out the proverbial window, and said, “Please only address me in such a way during formal lessons, Ha—Mr. Potter.” He averted his eyes before continuing. “It makes me feel a lecherous old man,” he finished quietly.

Harry’s shocked expression turned into a smirk. “Having lecherous thoughts, then?”

“This is not the time, Mr. Potter. You had a question regarding your reading assignment, I believe?”

“Oh, well yeah. He keeps talking about how you’re supposed to _feel_ what kind curse is coming so you can decide what to do. But how am I supposed to be able to feel the difference between the Jelly-legs Jinx and the Cruciatus before they’ve even been cast?”

“He means that it matters what type of magic is behind the curse. If you can sense the caster’s intent, you will be better able to counter the curse.” He took in Harry’s confused look. “It is somewhat akin to Legilimency—or rather, the effects of being a master Legilimens. After repeated forays into the minds of others, one gains a certain ability to read people’s magic, to sense what they are about to do with it.”

“But I’ve never even used Legilimency. How will I be able to know what he’s about to do?” Harry asked, looking angry and slightly panicked.

“Legilimency is not the only way to gain the ability. If you concentrate on reading others’ magic, with much practice you should eventually be able to distinguish between an imminent Cheering Charm or Stinging Hex based on the build-up of magic preceding the casting. At the very least, you should be capable of determining whether your opponent is about to try to kill you or not.”

Harry blinked a few times then dropped his head into his hands. “This is giving me a headache,” he mumbled, and looked back up. “You’ll teach me?”

Snape nodded once.

“Okay.” Harry sighed. “I didn’t even know that was possible. And wandless magic—I suspected, but I didn’t really know anything about it. Why hasn’t anyone tried to teach me this stuff before?”

“It is very advanced magic,” Snape replied.

“Well yes, but if I’m going to defeat…him, then shouldn’t I know everything I can? Shouldn’t I be as prepared as possible? Dumbledore should know better!”

Snape was tempted to reprimand the man for his tone, but he had to agree. “I do not think the headmaster expects you to face the Dark Lord so soon. He must be counting on years to prepare you.”

“Is he daft? What, does he think Voldemort’s just going to hang around not torturing and killing innocent people for ten years while I get my act together?” Harry was now shouting and gesticulating wildly. “I’ve already faced him, what…five bloody times? And every time, I only survived through sheer luck! He doesn’t think it might be useful for me to actually be able to defend myself when my luck runs out?”

Harry had started pacing at some point during his rant, and seemed to deflate back onto the couch. “He doesn’t think I’ll survive, does he? Of course he’s not going to waste his time trying to teach me, when he knows one day I’m just going to off him and get killed in the process. This is pointless.”

“You know very well that is untrue,” Snape responded sharply. “The headmaster’s head has simply been overruled by his heart—he merely wishes you to live as normal a life as possible. He has fooled himself into thinking the final confrontation will occur so far in the future, that for now you may enjoy yourself and live as any sixteen-year-old would.”

Harry scowled, and Snape knew why. “He cares for you in a way that has blinded him to the fact that you have never led a ‘normal’ life—he is striving for the impossible. No one, least of all you, can truly live his life freely until the Dark Lord has been vanquished. I fear Albus will not see this until it is too late. So it falls to you—do you wish to be as prepared as possible when the time comes?”

Harry did not hesitate to answer in the affirmative. “Very well,” Snape said. “I will do my best to teach you what I know. But now it is time for tea.”

Snape went to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two steaming cups.

“Thank you, Pro—is the lesson officially over for the day?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“Then thank you, Severus,” Harry said, smiling around the still unfamiliar name.


	24. Better Than Sex

“Is it my turn?” Harry asked.

Snape had absolutely no idea. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Okay, erm. Who’s your best friend?”

Snape blinked. His best friend? “What, right now?”

“Well, yeah. Or I guess during school or something, if you’d prefer,” Harry answered, starting to squirm.

Before this moment, Snape had not been bothered that he hadn’t any friends. But for some reason, he did not want to admit it to Harry. He knew it was mostly irrational, but he worried that realizing Snape had no friends would make Harry think about why and realize he did not wish to ‘get to know’ him after all.

“In school, I was friends with your mother, Lily, and I suppose with Regulus Black, Sirius’ younger brother. I would not have called either of them ‘best friends’, nor would they me, but we were friends nonetheless. Now, I would have to say Albus is the best friend I have, though he seems more a great uncle to me.”

Snape kept his emotions from his face, but he considered that if he were capable of blushing, he would be doing so now.

Harry must have sensed what he was thinking, because he apologized.

Snape did not know if he meant he was sorry for asking, or sorry for the answer. Either way, he did not want his sympathy. “No matter. I do not need to ask who your best friends are, but is one closer to you than the other?”

“Well, they’re both close to me in different ways. Ron’s good at just being there for me and listening, then making me laugh about my problems. Hermione is very understanding. She actually offers solutions to things, instead of trying to ignore them. But I feel like they would both be there for me, no matter what, so I don’t think I could really say one of them is a better friend than the other.”

A small smile tugged on the corner of Harry’s mouth. “What did you mean when you said you ‘suppose’ you were friends with Regulus?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “He and I were…I am uncertain what we were. I suppose you could say we dated.”

“Meaning you had sex, but not really a relationship,” Harry said matter-of-factly. When had he become so perceptive?

“You make it sound so romantic,” Snape sneered. “Though I must admit that is appropriate, as there was very little romance involved. I imagine our…association was the reason for your godfather’s profound dislike of me. He accused me of luring his brother to the Dark side, though I did no such thing.”

“You never told me…Did Arthur Weasley know the full extent of what occurred at your relatives’ house?” Snape asked.

Harry looked down. “No, no one knows.” He raised his head, eyes wide, and quickly added, “You won’t tell anyone, right?” 

“I consider everything that has passed between us to be in the strictest confidence. I will keep your secrets, just as I expect you to keep mine.”

Harry looked somewhat affronted and nodded. “Of course.”

That night, around the time they habitually retired, Snape rose to go to his room and found Harry following him once again. He stopped in the hall between their two doors, and faced him.

“Harry, I think it would be best if we each slept in our own room tonight.”

The effect was immediate. Harry looked like he was about to receive the demertor’s kiss and quickly turned away. Clearly he was misunderstanding Snape’s intention.

“Harry, look at me,” Snape said, and gently guided Harry’s chin until they could see into one another’s eyes. “I only mean that we should slow down. Things have been progressing far more quickly than they ought.” 

He placed a soft kiss on Harry’s lips. “I will see you in the morning, Harry.”

Snape waited until the man gave a small smile, then went into his room. He readied himself for sleep, but he could not decide whether to take any Dream-filled Sleep or not. He had hoped that after so long, the nightmares might not be such a problem anymore. Obviously, he’d been wrong about that.

But having dreams, regular dreams, was nice. It was…interesting. But was it worth it?

He settled on taking half as much as he had the previous night, and crawled into bed. He did not know exactly what the effect would be—he might dream for only half the night, or perhaps the dreams would not feel so intense. 

To make himself stop thinking about it, he mentally went through the recipe for Skele-Gro, and drifted to sleep somewhere around ‘Add precisely one quarter pound crushed frog bones and stir counterclockwise for two minutes.’  
 _  
“Dear Severus, I have a task for you,” the Dark Lord instructed with a glint in his eye. It was shortly after his resurrection in the graveyard, and the sparkle made his red eyes appear even more evil than usual._

_“Yes, my Lord?” Snape asked, sounding appropriately enthusiastic. The others who had been present for the meeting had all left, leaving him alone in Riddle Manor with his master, and he wanted nothing more than to return to his rooms at Hogwarts and take a long shower._

_Nonetheless, he took a small step forward to convey his interest. The Dark Lord reached out and took his hand. “Come,” he said softly and led Snape from the room. When he stopped at the door to his personal room, Snape knew what was coming._

_He tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that at least the Dark Lord would use a lubrication charm, as the point of this was not to hurt and humiliate Snape, but to give the Dark Lord pleasure. It was little consolation._

_The Dark Lord stroked Snape’s cheek and directed him to the bed. “Not as young and taut as you used to be, but still one of my favorites.”_

_“Thank you, my Lord,” was Snape’s programmed reply._

_The Dark Lord muttered, “_ Divesto _,” and their clothes were folded neatly on a chair. Snape knew his role well, and lay face down on the bed, waiting._

_“You look so needy, Severus.” He leaned down and whispered into Snape’s ear, “What do you want?”_

_“I want you, my Lord.”_

_The Dark Lord was by no means gentle, but he did not usually make Snape bleed, and he supposed he should be thankful._

_Snape played his part and made appropriate noises at appropriate times. He stroked his own erection furiously, knowing his lord would be unhappy if Snape did not show his pleasure physically._

_He knew the Dark Lord was close when he heard a series of low, unintelligible hisses. He almost always lapsed into Parseltongue before he reached orgasm._

_Snape cringed at the hateful sound, but soon after it was replaced with silence and a heavy weight collapsed onto his back.  
_  
Snape was startled awake by the crushing pressure on his lungs. He gave a sigh of relief when he realized he was only short of breath because his face was buried in his pillow.

He knew it was only a dream, that it hadn’t been real, but he still felt disgusting. The fact that he was half-hard did not help matters at all. 

It was the middle of the night, but he had to take a shower to make his skin stop crawling. Afterward, he felt much better and was able to go back to sleep.

He woke a bit after seven and lay staring at the ceiling for a few minutes. He knew he had just been dreaming, but he could not remember what had happened. He knew that he had been happy, and disappointed to wake up, but try as he might he could not recall the events of his dream.

He went about his morning routine, and settled in the sitting room to read until ten. He was scowling, thinking that it was not worth it to take the potion if it gave him nightmares and he was unable to remember his pleasant dreams, when Harry walked in.

“Good morning, Severus.”

He could not keep the scowl on his face when he heard that. He did manage to keep from smiling, however, and reply, “Good morning, Harry. Are you ready to begin?”

Harry nodded, and Snape proceeded to test his ability to wandlessly block curses for a few minutes. He was using more powerful curses than he had the previous day, but Harry was able to handle them just the same.

“Very well, that was adequate. Now we shall see what you learned from your reading assignment yesterday. I will hex you, and you will attempt to block it. I will only use hexes with which you are familiar, for the time being. Obviously, I will be using all nonverbal spells. I will also attempt to make it easier for you to sense my magic by building up more magic than is usually necessary before each spell. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded.

“Then let us begin.”

They worked for about three hours. At first, Harry had no idea what was coming, and was forced to cast general shields or blocks at the last second. Toward the end of the session, Harry seemed to at least be able to distinguish spells like Stinging and Blistering Hexes from things like the Jelly-legs Jinx, the Impediment Jinx, or _Incarcerous_. 

As a final test, Snape imagined that he was standing in front of the Dark Lord, about to cast the Killing Curse. He let the magic build, and heard Harry gasp.

“Relax, Mr. Potter. I was simply checking to see if you would be able to sense it,” Snape said, trying to sound reassuring. Harry relaxed a bit and nodded. Snape tried a few more curses, just for good measure.

When they finally stopped, Harry was breathless. He sat on the couch panting for a few minutes, then said, “That was really weird.”

“To what are you referring, exactly?” Snape asked, though he had a good idea.

“It’s hard to explain. At first, all I could tell was that you were about to cast a spell, but I couldn’t tell what. Then after a while, it started to feel different based on what type of spell it was. The curses that were going to directly hurt me felt different from the ones that were going to knock me down or tie me up. But they all still felt like you.”

He paused for a moment, still catching his breath. “Can you do that without the spells? I mean, could you just build up your magic like that without anything in particular in mind? Or do you have to really be about to cast a spell and _use_ it?”

“If I had used all the magic I let build before those spells, you would likely be dead right now. And I do not know if you were able to pinpoint it exactly, but that was the Killing Curse that got you so riled up,” Snape replied evenly.

“Ah, right. Okay.” Harry seemed somewhat wary, but returned to his original question. “But can you do it without a particular spell in mind? Can you just build up your magic—not Stinging Hex magic or Shield magic or Warming Charm magic—just your magic in general?”

Snape thought it was quite an odd question. It was certainly one that had never occurred to him before. What would be the use? “I am uncertain—I have never attempted it.”

Harry was looking apprehensive and excited at the same time. “Would you? Try, that is?”

“Whatever for?”

“I…I just want to know what it would feel like,” Harry answered, and a blush crept up his cheeks.

“As you wish.” Snape closed his eyes and concentrated on his magic. It was hard to do so without thinking about a particular spell, but he pushed any incantation that popped into his head swiftly back out. Instead, he tried to just concentrate on himself.

“My god, it’s like having sex.”

Snape snapped his eyes open in time to see Harry cover his mouth with his hand and his eyebrows jump about two inches. Clearly, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Well, you wouldn’t really know, would you?” Snape smirked.

Harry was now blushing profusely. “No, I suppose not.”

“You try it,” Snape proposed.

Harry nodded and closed his eyes.

Slowly, Snape felt tendrils of magic brushing against him. They eddied and flowed, getting steadily larger. The magic felt so much like Harry—it was as if Harry’s soul, his very essence, was swirling around the room. He could feel it touching him, almost like a caress. 

Then the magic grew larger and felt even more intense. It was completely enveloping him. He had never felt so safe in his life. 

Oh Merlin—he could feel it _inside_ himself! He could feel Harry, Harry’s magic, permeating his entire body. The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced. He never wanted it to end, but at the same time the feeling of—what, contentment, belonging, of _coming home_?—was so intense it was almost painful.

“No,” he said, “This is better than sex.”


	25. Learning to Expect the Unexpected

Chapter 25 – Learning to Expect the Unexpected

That night, by unspoken agreement, they shared a goodnight kiss and retired to their separate rooms. 

Snape considered taking Dream-filled Sleep only for a moment before he decided against it. He could not face the nightmares again, not alone.

He was agitated at the thought that Harry had become so important to him so quickly. Considering that he already felt more comfortable around Harry than he had ever felt in his life, even alone, that he wanted—needed?—Harry there to comfort him, that he felt as if this man whom he had barely spared a second thought for a month ago had become a _part_ of him…yes, considering all this he was glad he had demanded they take things slowly.

He paced for a while to release his frustration, but it was only somewhat effective. What he really wanted was to throw things, to hit someone, to run the entire width of Britain in the rain. 

These disconsolate thoughts were useless. He took a dose of Wake-Me-Not and collapsed onto the bed, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

The next day, they practiced blocking nonverbal spells again. After an hour, Snape could tell Harry was improving, but they were both tiring. It would be neither useful nor safe to practice something so new when both of them were fatigued.

“Very well, Mr. Potter, that is enough for today. Let us take tea, then I believe a Potions lesson is in order,” Snape said. It had been days since he’d brewed anything, and it was making him feel somewhat on edge.

After tea, Harry followed Snape to his room. “How would you like to learn to brew the Wolfsbane Potion?”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Well, it would be great if I could, sir. Isn’t it really complicated though?” he asked apprehensively.

“It is indeed. No need to fret, we will start with the basics. You will only be attempting the base today,” Snape answered and retrieved a worn, leather-bound notebook—his personal potion journal. He flipped to the correct page and set it on the worktable in front of Harry.

“These are the instructions for the base. Do what you can on your own, but ask if you are uncertain about something, as even the base is highly volatile.”

Harry looked from the notebook to Snape and back again a few times. 

“What is it, Mr. Potter?” Snape asked impatiently.

“Nothing, sir. It’s just, I was expecting a textbook or something.”

“You would find the version of this potion invented by Mr. Belby in _Advanced Potion-Making: A Course for Master’s Studies_ , but as it is almost entirely ineffective, I see no reason to attempt it.”

“Then what’s this version?” 

“It is _my_ version,” Snape answered matter-of-factly.

“Well, why isn’t it in a textbook somewhere?” Harry asked, his brow furrowed.

Snape almost sighed. He met Harry’s eyes before he spoke softly, “Who would publish a recipe authored by Severus Snape?”

“What, just because you used to have a mark on your arm? That’s ridiculous!”

Snape was shocked at Harry’s anger. To his recollection, no one had ever defended him before. And, as it aroused a warm, tight feeling in his chest, he thought he’d remember if someone had.

“That is not for us to decide. My only regret is that, as a result, the potion is not available to all those who need it.” He reverted to his usual lecture voice before he added, “Get started, Mr. Potter.”

The base took about two hours to make. Snape had to stop Harry a few times to thoroughly explain the differences between chopping, slicing, cubing, dicing, and mincing, as he seemed to think they all meant the same thing. 

There was also a tense moment when Harry almost added eight ounces of powdered aconite instead of 0.8, and Snape had grabbed his wrist to stop him and yelled, “Are you trying to kill us both, Potter? Is it that difficult for you to read simple instructions?”

Harry’s face had reddened and he bit his lower lip. “I’m sorry, Professor.”

He said it with such self-loathing that Snape had almost apologized for berating him. He did, however, try to change the tone of his voice when he said, “You must be more careful. Potions are fantastic, but dangerous things, and you could easily hurt yourself with the simplest mistake.”

Harry had looked into his eyes for a long moment before he replied. “I understand, Professor. I’ll try to be more careful from now on.”

The base was completed without any further mishaps. “That will need to simmer for three days before we can proceed,” Snape instructed.

“So it turned out okay? I didn’t muck it up?” Harry asked, genuinely surprised.

“It will suffice,” Snape answered.

They returned to the sitting room and settled into their respective sofas. After a moment of silence, Snape said, “It is your turn, I believe.”

“Oh, right. Um, what’s your middle name?” Harry asked.

“Tobias,” Snape answered, shuddering almost imperceptibly. Harry quirked an eyebrow, and Snape elaborated, “After my father.”

“Well,” Harry said, “regardless of where it came from, I think it’s a lovely name.”

Lovely? It was not a term that had ever been applied to any aspect of himself, let alone his name. The warm, tight feeling was back and it made him uneasy.

“Yes, well,” Snape paused to clear his throat before continuing, “Is Harry short for something…Harold, Henry?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen my birth certificate or anything, but any official mail has always been addressed to ‘Harry Potter’.” A brief look of worry clouded Harry’s countenance before he continued, “You said you inherited your father’s house—how did he die?”

“It was no secret that I hated my father. Shortly before I graduated from Hogwarts, the Dark Lord had him killed as a reward for my loyalty.” He took a breath and lowered his voice. “I did not ask for it. I could not help feeling that he deserved to die, but it weighed on my conscience nevertheless.”

Harry had been catching him off-guard at every turn, and the look, not of revulsion or fear, but of compassion he saw on Harry’s face was no exception.

“Tell me something you want, some object. Something attainable, but that you would not obtain for yourself. Something you wish someone would give you.” He chastised himself for not having thought before he spoke. He abhorred sounding like a fool.

Harry contemplated for a while before answering. “This is going to sound stupid, okay? But I’m just trying to be honest. What I would want someone to give me is something important to that person, a piece of himself. I don’t care if it’s something useful, or anything like that. And I would never, _never_ , ask for it. I guess most of all, I just want someone to _want_ to give me that. To…to share that with me.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, this doesn’t make any sense. Like I said, it’s stupid.”

Snape could do nothing but look at him. He had expected him to say a Firebolt B-36 or self-warming snow boots, not anything so deep, so mature, so profound—even if it was awkwardly worded, which really just added to its charm. “It is anything but stupid,” he said finally, and filed the information away to contemplate later.

“What’s your favorite thing about yourself? Personality-wise or physically or whatever,” Harry asked.

Snape blinked at him. What sort of question was that? Did he not know by now that there was nothing to him worth liking, that there was nothing _good_ to him? Was he having a laugh? He searched Harry’s face for a brief moment before averting his eyes. He did not see any mirth there, but he still felt as if he were being mocked.

“It is after five, we should eat,” he said and swept out of the room.

They ate in silence. After dinner, Snape gave Harry another book to read— _Non-Darke Curses: Defeating your Enemy without Darke Magick_ by Dominick Ditterwick, published 1798—and opened his own book, pointedly avoiding eye contact. 

After over four hours of uncomfortable silence, Snape gave up trying to concentrate on his book and stood to go to his room. A soft touch at his elbow stopped him.

“Please, let me come with you, Severus.”

“Why?” he asked, turning slightly so he could see Harry’s face.

“Is wanting to be with you not enough?” Snape gave no response and Harry sighed. “Fine, if you need another reason, I can’t take any Dreamless Sleep tonight and I don’t seem to have nightmares when you’re with me.”

“Just to sleep? I am too…” he stopped himself from saying ‘emotionally drained’, “exhausted for anything else.”

Harry nodded. “Yes. I just want to hold you.”

The simple statement was the exact opposite of what he had been expecting, but after all the surprises of the day he could not bring himself to be shocked.


	26. A Piece of Me

At ten, Snape stood and said, “Today, you will attempt to block nonverbal spells with the correct shield…wandlessly.” Harry looked panicked. “I do not expect a flawless performance, but we will not stop until I am satisfied with your progress.”

They worked for two hours with steady improvement. Harry’s biggest problem seemed to be aiming without his wand. When Snape finally called an end to the session, the room was quite in disarray.

“Clean this up, Mr. Potter.”

He did not receive the glare he had expected. Instead, Harry just closed his eyes, and Snape felt a faint prickle of Harry’s magic in the room. He whispered, “ _Reparo_ ,” and the books that lay torn on the floor, the broken vase, the ripped couch cushions, and the several buttons that had been popped off Snape’s robes all repaired themselves. Harry looked rather smug.

“Well,” Snape said, “That was…thorough. Come, tea.”

Once they had rested, they returned to the sitting room. Snape summoned a quill and parchment, and told Harry to choose eight spells he learned about in the previous day’s reading assignment and write fifteen inches on them.

“Fifteen!” came Harry’s reply.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Unless you would prefer twenty? Do not remove yourself from that sofa until you have finished.”

It was suppertime by the time Harry finished, and he was somewhat sullen as they ate their meal.

Afterward, they sat in the sitting room in silence for a few minutes before Harry said, “My turn, I suppose?”

Snape fervently hoped he would not repeat his question from the day before, as he had no better answer now than he had then. Reluctantly, he nodded.

“Do you ever want to have kids? I mean, you seem to hate students well enough, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. And I know you said you’d…been with men before and all, but for all I know, you’re bi. Plus there’s always adoption or some such. So? Kids?”

It seemed Harry was determined to punish him for setting the essay by making him as uncomfortable as possible. Impertinent Gryffindor.

Snape was tempted to allow the various stereotypes surrounding him to speak for him, but the mere fact that he’d asked the question suggested he had already seen past some of them, at least. And as he sincerely did not want Harry to start lying to him, he was determined to answer truthfully.

“I really hadn’t thought—it has never seemed a possibility for such a man as myself. The students are insufferable, but I would like to think I would feel differently about my own child.” He paused in thought. He really had not considered the possibility in any depth before, and he surprised himself by saying, “I do not think I would be averse to the idea,” and scowled. “Yourself?” he asked.

“I’d love to have kids more than anything. I’ve never really had a family, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Don’t worry, I’m not completely delusional—it’s only a dream.”

Snape wanted to ask for an explanation, but knew he would not get it until it was his turn again and kept his mouth shut.

“So, erm, are you…bi? Or, you know.” Harry looked at his knees, blushing.

“Do not speak to your lap. As to your question, no, I would not consider myself bisexual. I have kissed a few females in my time, but the experience was always somewhat…lacking. You seem to think you will never have children. Why is that?”

“Well, obviously not liking girls throws a wrench into things from the start. I could adopt, I guess. It wouldn’t be the same, but I think I could love an adopted child as my own. Anyway, like I said, it’s just a dream. Even if I do survive the final showdown, it isn’t like anyone will ever fall in love with me or anything, and I wouldn’t want to raise a child alone.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. The straightforward delivery, like he was discussing the finer points of cricket, had him just as worried as the words themselves. The man seemed to take it as a given that he was unlovable, doomed to be alone. Now, for someone like himself, Snape could understand, but a man like Harry? Someone so kind and passionate and giving? Of course someone would fall in love with him. 

The warm knot was back in his chest again. What _was_ that?

“Before you take your turn, let me say that I disagree. I know that you will find someone who loves you.” He hesitated slightly. Was Harry so unaware of the possibilities in the wizarding world? “And, just so you know, it is possible for two wizards, either with the help of certain potions or unaided if they are very, very powerful, to have their own biological children, though it is uncommon.”

Harry’s gaping mouth told him that he’d, in fact, had no idea.

“Were you unaware that one of your year-mates, Anthony Goldstein, has two fathers?”

“Well, I didn’t…I mean…I didn’t take it _literally_ ,” Harry sputtered.

Harry looked around for a few moments as if he were lost. Snape took pity of him and said, “Go on then, it is your turn.”

“Er, right. You don’t have any siblings, do you?”

“I do not,” Snape replied. “What is your favorite dish?”

Harry seemed relieved that they were moving back into more familiar territory. “My favorite food? I don’t suppose I have one, really. I’m just happy not to be eating cold leftovers.”

“Cold?” Snape asked without thinking.

“Well, I was always punished if I got caught stealing food, and I didn’t want to risk my aunt and uncle hearing the microwave—that’s what muggles use to reheat food—when I was able to sneak something at night.”

“Stealing food.”

The blush that had been receding from Harry’s cheeks returned full force.

“Stealing food!” Snape was having trouble containing his rage and stood to pace. “From your own home? Were those bloody muggles even _human_? Stealing food, indeed!”

A hand caught his elbow and he stopped and turned abruptly. Harry raised his head and planted a kiss on Snape’s lips.

“Thank you, Severus.”

The next several days passed in their by now well-established routine. At ten every morning, they reviewed previous work, then implemented in practice what had been learned in theory. After tea and a light lunch, Harry was given a reading assignment, essay, or potions lesson to complete.

They did not tire of the question-and-answer game, and found themselves beginning it as soon as lessons were over for the day. The majority of nights were spent with both in Snape’s bed, though Harry spent a few in his own room at Snape’s insistence. They shared little more than a few heated kisses and frantic touches. 

Once, after much internal debate, Snape took an even smaller dose of Dream-filled Sleep to see what would happen, but there was no effect. He could not say he was entirely disappointed.

The day dawned bright and clear. Figuratively speaking, of course. Snape had no idea what the weather was like, but the day _felt_ bright and clear. And a good thing, too, because today was the day.

He and Harry had spent the night in their own rooms, as Snape had needed a bit of privacy last night and this morning. We went to the wardrobe to make sure the transfigurations and charms he’d placed on a set of robes to turn them into dress robes had held—they had. He took the small box from his bedside table and placed it in the pocket of the robes, paranoid that he would forget it when the time came. He had agonized over it, and was determined that everything was going to come off perfectly.

He composed himself and exited his room. Harry would be out soon for their lesson.

Snape had just finished his tea when Harry entered the sitting room. “Mr. Potter,” he said be way of greeting, “Today we duel. Use everything you have learned, but no dark magic for you. Do not hold back—I certainly shall not.”

Harry did not take out his wand, as he was now required to do almost everything wandlessly. He was becoming much more adept at controlling the magic that only a week or two ago had all but overwhelmed him.

They began. After only fifteen minutes, they were both using so much power that the room practically crackled with their magic. Luckily, they had taken to casting containment charms over the bookshelves, as it had gotten rather tedious trying to work out which pages had come from which books. This was their fiercest fight yet.

For hours, they shot curses, mostly nonverbal, at each other and, along with casting shield spells and blocks, rolled and dived and jumped out of the way. Snape was tiring, and it was evident in the power behind his spells, but, while his movements were becoming somewhat sluggish, Harry’s were only getting stronger. It was just a matter of time.

Snape could feel the spell coming and knew this was it. He put all the power he could muster behind the counter-jinx in an attempt to lessen the effect. He was marginally successful. Uncountered, _Petrificus Totalus_ would have left him completely incapable of movement. As it was, he retained control over his face, fingers, and toes. 

Once he’d recovered from being knocked to the ground with such force, he muttered, “You have prevailed. Release me.”

“Oh, sorry. Of course, Professor.”

When he could move again, he sat up, determined that he was not seriously injured, and asked after Harry’s well-being.

“I’m fine, just a few cuts. Bit out of breath,” he admitted, smiling.

“Very well. Go on and shower. If you see anything new in your wardrobe when you are finished, wear that.”

Harry gave a brief look of confusion, but shrugged it off and headed to the washroom.

As soon as he closed the door, Snape stood and hurried to his room. He cast a very strong _Scourgify_ on himself and donned his dress robes, quickly but carefully. When he was satisfied that all the buttons were done up properly, he did another quick spell on his hair to make it smoother and shinier. It also imbued the very faint scents of cardamom and sassafras.

Now dressed, he rushed to Harry’s room to transfigure a set of dress robes for him. He did not have much time, so they were simple but he made sure the fit would be quite flattering.

Next, he headed to the kitchen. Much of the food had been cooked the night before and placed under stasis and invisibility charms, but he had some last minute preparations to make. Once he was convinced that any more fiddling would not make the food any better, he laid everything out on the table and recast the invisibility charms. He just had time to conjure several candles and Nox the other lights in the room before Harry emerged.

They stared at one another for a long moment. When he could think again, Snape was glad he had opted against Gryffindor red for the trim on Harry’s robes and gone with a rather more Slytherin shade, as it made the man’s eyes sparkle even more.

Harry broke the silence. “You look…bloody hell, what’s the occasion?”

Snape had been wondering all day, but it seemed that after weeks in the safe house, Harry really had no idea what day it was.

He pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.”

Harry complied, looking apprehensive, but excited.

“ _Tempus Totalus_ ,” Snape said, and glittery writing appeared in the air. It read ‘6:17 PM, 31 July, 1996’. He followed Harry’s eyes closely, and the moment he finished reading, Snape countered the invisibility charms. 

The most prominent item on the table was a chocolate cake that said ‘Happy Birthday Harry’ and had sixteen candles evenly spaced around the perimeter. There were also two plates filled with chicken fettuccine alfredo, a basket of bread, and a bottle of white wine. Snape had been surprised, but pleased, to find the second bottle atop his wardrobe, when he was absolutely certain it had not been there before.

Harry’s mouth opened and closed a few times.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Snape said, giving a small smile that, for him, was practically a full-faced grin.

“I, er…Thanks. I’ve…no one’s ever made me a birthday dinner before. This is…it’s great, Severus. Thank you so much.”

“I am glad you approve. Now tuck in.”

Their meal was filled with light banter and companionable silence. Snape served the cake, and when Harry took his first bite, he moaned. The sound, which he had never heard elicited by a dessert before, rippled through Snape’s body. Any more of that, and he wasn’t going to make it through dinner.

His problem was taken care of when they approached the end of dessert—he was terribly nervous about the next part. He used all his powers of occlumency and spy training not to show it as he reached into his robes and removed a small, square package wrapped in plain, brown paper with a white ribbon tied around it and set it in front of Harry.

“Oh no, you didn’t have to…”

“It was no trouble at all. I could not very well go shopping to find something appropriate for you, so I was not even forced to brave the crowds.” When Harry made no move, he pointed out, “It will not open itself. I suppose I could have charmed it to, but most rather enjoy unwrapping gifts from what I’ve been told.”

“Right, yeah,” Harry agreed, and began ripping the paper to shreds with a look of glee. When all the wrappings had been removed, he opened the box to reveal a small vial of potion nestled in its velvet-lined interior. It had no label, and he held it up to study it for a moment. The crystal of the vial was scratched and worn, despite the numerous protection charms placed on it.

“What is it?” he asked finally.

“I’m afraid it will probably be of very little practical use to you. You see, it is something very important to me, a part of me almost, and I wanted to share it with you, Harry.” Snape let Harry mull over his words for a moment before the look of comprehension shone on his face.

“Severus, you shouldn’t have. I…I don’t know what to say.” Tears were gathering in Harry’s eyes. 

“It is the first potion I ever invented. I believe I was in my sixth year at Hogwarts.” He paused before continuing very quietly, “It will give the drinker the will to carry on living when he no longer possesses it himself.”

The tears were now streaming freely down Harry’s face. He frowned slightly. “Why…why did you make this?”

“I had need of it,” Snape answered simply. “I only ever made one batch, and this is the last of it. Until quite recently, I carried it with me at all times, as a talisman of sorts.”

Harry’s eyes were profoundly sad and filled with joy at the same time. He gingerly placed the vial back in its box, then went over to curl up in Snape’s lap and give him a long, gentle kiss.

“This means so much more to me than I can say. And I’m glad you don’t feel like you’ll need it anymore,” Harry said as he held Snape almost painfully tight and buried his face against his neck.


	27. Happy Birthday, Harry

Harry, his face still wet with tears, placed a lingering, almost sickeningly sweet, kiss on Snape’s lips and tugged on Snape’s robes until he followed Harry down the hall. Once they reached Snape’s room, Harry stole another kiss.

Snape had been finding it harder and harder to control himself around Harry, and when Harry pulled out of this kiss, gave a bashful smile, and bit his lower lip, he knew he had lost the fight.

Before his next heartbeat, Snape had spun Harry around, pressed him against the wall, and fastened his mouth over his. Harry whimpered, and it made Snape shudder with desire. He threaded one hand through Harry’s hair and snaked the other around his waist to guide him to the bed.

They made quick work of their clothing, and Snape was soon lost in the sensation of skin against skin. He trailed hot kisses down Harry’s chest and stomach, then, with no warning or preamble, took the entirety of Harry’s erection into his mouth. Snape could not be certain how long it took—who could care about _time_ at a time like this?—but he was sure it was not long at all before he could feel Harry’s body tensing beneath him. He was very close.

When he heard the low, hissing sound, Snape backed away so quickly he almost fell off the foot of the bed.

“What, what is it? Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry,” Harry said, managing to sound self-deprecating even with his voice husky with lust.

“I…no, it was not your fault. It was me—you just reminded me…” Snape trailed off.

“What? Who did I remind you of?”

Surely he could guess? He really did not want to have to spell it out for him, not right now. “Do you remember what you were saying a moment ago?”

Harry grinned. “I think it was along the lines of ‘Oh Merlin, please, just like that.’ ”

“Did you know you were saying it in parseltongue?”

“What? No, are you sure?” Harry’s face fell. “No. No, no, no. Did he…? Oh, tell me he didn’t. He did, didn’t he?”

“What exactly is your question, Harry?”

“Vol…the Dark Lord. He…he made you…oh god. And when he…then he…” Harry looked like he might be sick. “I’m so sorry, Severus, I didn’t mean to.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It was my fault, I reacted badly,” Snape said, and leaned in to give Harry a heated kiss. “Do not worry, I am going to make you forget—I’m going to make us both forget.”

By the time Harry had been thoroughly ravished, Voldemort was the furthest thing from their minds.

“Severus?” Harry asked, shy, yet somehow determined, “Will you do me a favor?”

Snape smirked. “What do you require?”

“Will you show me, you know, what it’s supposed to be like?” Harry swallowed audibly. “What sex is supposed to be like?”

Snape was momentarily speechless. When he recovered from the shock—Harry really wanted him, cold, uncaring Snape, to do this? When he could have anyone one the planet?—he still did not know what to say. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no words were forthcoming.

Harry looked away. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to. I thought…never mind.”

Snape found his voice. “No! Harry, I…it is not that I do not wish to. Are you certain this is what you want? You do not wish to wait until someone…more suitable…?” It was Snape’s turn to look away.

“Yes, I’m certain. I only want you.” Snape still hesitated. “Come on,” Harry pleaded with a smile, “it’s my birthday!”

Snape could not resist the sultry eyes and the heat radiating from the young man who had just asked him, Severus Snape, to take him. So take him he did.

It was too bad he had not had advanced warning—he knew the perfect recipe for a lubricant that had numbing and pain-reducing effects and smelled faintly of vanilla and tarragon. As it was, he cast a lubrication/contraception charm and summoned a jar of mild analgesic cream, which he coated his fingers with to prepare Harry.

The man was very tense, and Snape knew he was afraid. After a few moments, when the pain didn’t come, Harry relaxed somewhat. When Snape’s finger ghosted over his prostate, he gasped. “Oh, oh what was that…” he moaned.

When he sensed Harry was ready, Snape slicked his erection with the analgesic cream. He hated to ruin the moment—again—but he had to ask. “Harry, are you still certain?”

“Yes, please! Severus, please.” Harry writhed.

“It will be easier for you if you turn over,” Snape advised.

Harry almost looked offended. “No, I don’t care. I need to see your face.”

At the first contact, Snape felt a faint magical tingle. He briefly wondered whether the cream could be having some sort of reaction with the charm, though he knew it was practically impossible, but the thought was soon pushed aside when he found himself fully sheathed in the most comfortable warmth he had ever felt.

He gave Harry time to adjust, but he could not wait forever. He started slow, and found the angle that was sure to have Harry gasping with almost every thrust. The closer he got to spilling himself into that welcoming heat, the more Snape noticed the magical tingle. He knew for certain it was not the cream, because now he could feel it in his face and his toes and his fingertips and in between his shoulder blades. He wanted to ask whether Harry was having a similar experience, but he could barely breathe, much less speak coherently.

Snape was teetering at the edge and closed his eyes. As his orgasm approached, a dazzling light confronted him. His last rational thought was that he was glad he had shut his eyes, because he was sure it would have blinded him.

Harry came with a strangled cry just before Snape collapsed onto him. Magic was heavy in the air. Snape breathed heavily for a few moments, and opened his eyes just in time to see a glittering white light around them fade. He could feel the magic in the air recede at the same time.

Harry stared wide-eyed at the now dark air in front of his face. “…the hell? What in Merlin’s name just happened?”

Indeed, what in the world was that? Snape frantically searched his brain for an answer, and was left feeling somewhat panicked when none was forthcoming. He hoped that his mind was just still foggy from his mind-blowing orgasm—he was honestly having a hard time staying awake, even with the distraction of the strange sparkling light. Maybe in the morning, when he could think more clearly, he would find an answer? The thought did little to ease his anxiety.

“I…I do not know.”

When he woke, Harry was curled against him like a cat with a contented look on his sleeping face. Snape brushed his fingers lightly through Harry’s hair, and carefully eased himself out of bed. He went through his morning routine without waking Harry.

Before he left the room, he left a potion and a short note—‘Take this, it will help with the discomfort…-S—where they would be found.

He wandered into the sitting room with a cup of tea, idly thinking about garish curtain patterns, and sat on the couch. He summoned the book he had been reading for the last couple of days, but ducked in alarm when it came hurtling toward him at a very high velocity. He heard a crack, and looked up to see that the wall was dented where the book had impacted it.

Harry came running into the room. “Are you okay? I, I felt…alarmed.” Harry narrowed his eyes at his last word, as if that had not been what he meant to say. He shook his head. “Is everything all right?”

Well, there was not anything necessarily wrong. “Yes, everything is fine. I have simply underestimated my own strength,” Snape explained, pointed toward the dent in the wall and the book that had fallen to the ground.

Harry looked relieved. “Oh, quit bragging. I’m going to take a shower.” Before he left, Harry went over and pecked Snape on the lips. “Thanks for the potion, by the way,” he said, and left to get ready for the day.

Snape picked his book up off the floor and tried to put the incident out of his mind. While he was up, he went to the kitchen for a muffin. He cast a weak warming charm on it, and watched in alarm when it started sizzling. He vanished the muffin before it scorched the countertop, and returned to the couch, pointedly _not_ thinking about it. He had read a few pages, when he inexplicably felt terrified, then amused almost immediately after. He also had an undeniable urge to go check on Harry.

Snape knocked on the bathroom door. “Harry, is everything okay in there?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He could hear Harry chuckling through the door. “I just slipped. Scared myself silly for a second, but I’m just fine.”

Snape frowned. What in Merlin’s name was going on here?


	28. Unforeseen Gifts

Snape was still leaning against the wall in the hallway when Harry emerged from the bathroom, already dressed in the robes he had brought in with him.

“Severus?”

Harry looked worried. And rightly so, Snape thought. “Sweet Merlin, what did you do to your hair?”

It was board straight, and could not have been neater if someone had spent hours painstakingly arranging it.

Harry squirmed. “Well, I cast a tidying charm on it like I do every morning. It usually doesn’t have much effect.” Snape wasn’t sure if he should be worried, or glad that it wasn’t just him. He needed more information before he could decide.

“ _Finite Incantatum_.” There, that was much better. “Come with me.”

When they arrived in the sitting room, Snape instructed, “Summon something, then hit the ground.”

Harry looked at him like he had suggested that Dumbledore actually had quite refined fashion sense, but he complied. “ _Accio throw pillow_ ,” he said, and dutifully dropped to the floor. It was a good thing too, because even if it was just a pillow, Snape thought it probably would have knocked him silly. The seam burst when it hit the wall.

“I…that was…that was a bit excessive,” Harry needlessly pointed out.

“Indeed. One more trial—cast _Lumos_.”

Harry complied, and Snape immediately regretted choosing that spell. It seemed that Harry agreed—at once, he shouted, “ _Nox_!”

“You didn’t have to conjure the sun, or whatever that was,” Snape snapped.

“I didn’t mean to, it just happened!” Harry explained, starting to panic.

“I know, I know. It’s just…this is all highly irregular.” Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. He supposed it was a good thing that their magical power seemed to have increased ten-fold overnight, but he would have liked an explanation, or at least some warning.

“This has something to do with last night, doesn’t it?” Harry asked. “Something about that glittery light. I could feel the magic tingling, but I thought you were doing it. This is my fault—I asked you to.”

“Harry, this is no one’s fault, and no amount of unforeseen events will make me regret what we did. In fact, from what I have witnessed thus far, it may very well be a blessing. We seem to have become two of the most powerful wizards in the world,” Snape said, trailing off, talking to himself. 

He had an idea. “Harry, try to perform a spell whose incantation you do not know. Just think about making something happen.”

“Er, okay.” Harry closed his eyes. 

Snape felt something nudging his back, like someone had placed a hand there and was pushing him forward. The invisible force pushed him toward Harry until they were standing about a foot apart. 

It was not the Imperius Curse, he knew that much. The Unforgivable produced actions from within—this was simply something guiding his body. The force raised his hand to caress Harry’s face.

Harry’s eyes flew open at the contact, and Snape’s hand fell back to his side. “Wow. How did I…? I wasn’t even that specific!”

This was very disconcerting. Snape had always been an exceptionally powerful wizard, but he had never put a hole in a wall with a simple summoning charm. And now Harry was performing magic intuitively, at the age of sixteen!

Snape looked up at the fake sun shining through the enchanted window, which seemed to be mocking him with its display of such a fair day. A thunderstorm would be more fitting.

Before he knew it, an ominous cloud drifted over and blocked the sun’s light and there was a flash of lightning.

“This is getting out of hand,” Snape said. “We need to figure out what has happened to us. Start searching the shelves for anything you think might be useful.”

So they spent most of the day thumbing through the myriad books, hoping against hope to find some obscure paragraph that started, ‘Oh, by the way, sometimes your magic will suddenly increase beyond reason—nothing to worry about.’ They were not in luck.

“It would seem there is nothing for it,” Snape finally conceded. “We shall simply have to learn to exercise control over our newfound power. Come, it is time we ate. Oh, and do try and refrain from using magic for the remainder of the day. I have no wish to be caught up in any more catastrophes.”

It took a week of practice before they were able to comfortably cast spells without worrying that they would destroy the safe house and end up trapped in the rubble underground, and they were quite relieved. Harry was so happy that he tried for a repeat performance of his birthday night, but Snape advised that they should not engage in that particular activity until they could be fully aware of the consequences. Harry pouted, but Snape suggested a few activities he felt it was safe for them to participate in and he soon recovered.

The next day, they took a well-deserved break. Well, it was more of a treat for Snape than for Harry, as they spent the afternoon making potions.

Normally, Snape would never work with a conjured cauldron—there were simply too many things that could go wrong. But he only had the one, and the extra that he conjured was identical to it in every way. He kept the new one for himself and gave Harry his, just in case something happened.

“You should make another batch of Dreamless Sleep—I am surprised you have not already run out.”

Harry smiled. “I don’t need it when I sleep with you. But it is getting a little low, so another few vials couldn’t hurt. Maybe I’ll even get it right this time.”

“Doubtful,” Snape said, his tone playful, and started setting out ingredients. There was not anything he needed personally, so he intended to brew several medical potions to give to Poppy when he returned.

“So,” Harry said, “do you want to go first?”

“You go ahead,” Snape replied, and began chopping some shriveled fig.

“Okay. How old were you when you brewed your first potion?”

“Six. It was a Deflating Draught. I accidentally spilled it on my shoes and had to go round barefoot for a week until I brewed a Swelling Solution to counteract the effect.” It was comical in hindsight, Snape thought, but at the time he had been too frightened his father would find out he ruined his shoes to see the humor. He increased the flame under his cauldron. “Who was the first snake you ever talked to?”

“I don’t know his name. My aunt and uncle took me with them for Dudley’s birthday trip to the zoo, and there was this huge python. My cousin was mad that it wasn’t moving and started banging on the glass. Somehow, I made the glass disappear long enough for Dudley to fall in, and the snake to get out, and then it reappeared.” Harry chuckled. “Yeah, that was fun. Definitely worth missing dinner for a week. Do you have any family now? Aunts, cousins, grandparents?”

“I do not know anything of my muggle family—my father was not on speaking terms with any of his relatives. My mother was an only child, and her parents died before I was born.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Snape gave a noncommittal shrug and decanted his completed fever-reducing potion into six vials. “No matter. Are you feeling more confident about your ability to defeat the Dark Lord, now that you could set the entire Forbidden Forest aflame on a whim?”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, I am. But it’s more knowing that I won’t be facing him alone, if you know what I mean.”

Snape turned toward Harry and was startled at the depth of trust and affection he saw in those eyes. That uncomfortable tightness that refused to explain its presence was back in his chest.

“I believe I do.”


	29. Superman and Robin

The next week was spent training in the mornings and reading every book they could find pertaining to Defense Against the Dark Arts in the afternoons. Not that he was going to say it aloud, but Snape was somewhat proud of Harry—the man knew as much DADA as Snape had when he had obtained his Mastery.

They were spending a rare evening apart. Snape was in his room, brewing an Invigoration Draught. He did not know what Harry was doing.

The fact that he did know what Harry was doing bothered him. And the fact that he was bothered by this bothered him even more. He stirred the contents of his cauldron with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary.

He looked at the blank expanse of wall above his worktable. If this were a normal house, one built on the ground rather than in it, he imagined there would probably be a window here. He imagined the window would overlook a small garden, containing all manner of rare potion ingredients, surrounded by an uneven fence. He imagined there would be a birdhouse and a pixiehouse perched precariously side-by-side atop the fence. He imagined there would be gaudy curtains framing the window, and that he might at some point laughingly compare them to Albus’ robes.

And that was when he realized he had closed his eyes, because they flew open when he inadvertently let his hand brush against the boiling hot cauldron. He felt panic rise in his chest for a brief moment, but the damage was minimal, and he healed the wound easily.

Then Harry threw the door open.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Nothing, I scalded my hand. It was quite mild—”

“No, I know that. Why weren’t you paying attention? It was almost like you were—were you daydreaming?” Harry asked and a smirk began to form.

Snape narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you explain to me exactly why you came running in here?”

Harry took a deep breath. “Well, you see, I was in the sitting room reading. Okay, I wasn’t really reading. I was holding a book in my lap being bored. And then I felt sort of panicky, and it went away really fast, but I felt like I should check on you. But then the idea that you might need my help made me feel like an idiot, so I didn’t. I just sat there wishing I could see you and know you were okay without making a fool of myself. And then it happened—I could see you! Through the wall! Two walls, actually.”

Snape stared at him. He almost wanted to ask him to repeat himself, but he did not think it would make any more sense the second time around.

Harry’s face lit up. “Bloody hell, I have X-Ray Vision! I’m like Superman!”

“Pardon?” Snape said. What in Merlin’s name was an ‘ecksray’?

Harry began laughing uncontrollably.

“Get a hold of yourself. What’s so bloody funny!” Snape demanded.

After a few gasps, Harry was able to speak. “Well, it’s just, you see, I get my superheroes mixed up…and I was thinking ‘If I’m superman, then that makes you Robin’ and believe me, you as Robin is hysterical. But then I realized Robin goes with _Bat_ man, not _Super_ man.”

Snape blinked. Had Harry finally cracked? “I fail to see why you would associate me with a songbird, nor why the thought should induce such a fit.” He really had no idea what was going on here. What were all of these…“ _Batman_?” he asked, incredulous.

Harry was laughing again. Snape forced a dose of Calming Draught down his throat. It had very little effect. After the second, Harry began to settle down.

“Never mind, muggle stuff. The point is, I saw you through the wall—both of them. I just focused on you, and there you were.”

Ah, there, that made much more sense.

Actually, no it didn’t.

“You saw this room? From the sitting room?”

“Well, no. I couldn’t see the whole room, just you. And the cauldron.”

“Focus on the sofa in the sitting room—try to see it,” Snape instructed.

Harry closed his eyes. He wore a look of concentration for about a minute, and looked up. “Nope, nothing.”

So Harry could see Snape through walls, but not couches? “Go in the other room, Harry.”

Harry was about to question him, so Snape gave him his Professor Glare, and he left. Snape closed his eyes and concentrated on Harry. He thought about how much he loved looking at Harry, how much he wanted to be looking at him right now.

And then he saw him. Harry was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, looking impatient. 

It startled him so much that Snape opened his eyes and could only see his room.

Harry came back in. “What happened? What surprised you?” he asked, concerned.

How did he know? Had Harry sensed Snape looking at him? “Nothing _happened_. I looked for you, and I saw you.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry said skeptically, “and that scared you?”

“What? Of course it didn’t _scare_ me. I was merely startled,” Snape explained emphatically. Wait… “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I was…startled.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I felt it, you great git. Well, I didn’t so much _feel_ it as sense it, you know? It’s been happening since…you know, since my birthday. I know you’ve felt it, too,” Harry cocked his head to the side, “Haven’t you?”

All the little things Snape had been pushing out of his mind began to come back to him. “I…” did not know what was happening? was too frightened of the possibility to consider it? instinctually suppress any emotion I experience, whether it is my own or not? “I suppose so.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes before Harry spoke.

“I wonder if you can do it on purpose.”

“To what are you referring?”

“Feel something,” Harry commanded.

Snape did not generally appreciate being commanded. “I beg your pardon?”

“Feel something. I want to know if we can direct emotions at each other on purpose.”

That, surprisingly, was a good question. “Oh,” Snape said. And, bugger it, now he had to _feel_ something. On purpose. 

He closed his eyes and fished around in his mind. Figuring this would probably be easiest if he chose to feel something he was already feeling, just stronger, he set about attempting to identify the various emotions currently drifting through his mind. As he was most certainly not a man given to examining his feelings, most of it was fairly foreign to him. He did manage to pinpoint confusion (obviously) and irritation (quite a bit of it) and hopelessness (just a touch) and lust (at a time like this!) and…what was that? Oh, interesting.

“Excitement. You’re really excited about something. Am I right?”

Snape opened his eyes. That was fast. Then again, Harry was much better at this whole emotional thing. “Indeed you are.”

Harry grinned. “Cool.”

The next morning, they practiced controlling what they sent to one another via their…link. Or whatever it was. But the more they used the link, the more they felt each other’s emotions accidentally.

It was exhausting. Snape tried to filter things using occlumency, but it simply was not working. Apparently this type of link was wholly different from legilimency. He was glad that at least he was not mixing Harry’s feeling up with his own. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something when he ‘felt’ Harry’s emotions that told him with certainty to whom they belonged. And he got an inexplicable thrill every time.

It was small consolation. He did not like it when he himself felt emotions, and now Harry was feeling them as well. The worst thing was that he did not know what all of them were.

“We have to find a way to limit this!” he snapped.

“Why? I think it’s awesome.”

“Because I cannot have you knowing what I’m feeling when I don’t bloody well know myself!” He cringed inwardly. It was not supposed to come out like that—yes, he was definitely exhausted.

Harry grinned, then tried to be serious. “I know you’re not a hundred percent comfortable with this. It’s not like I know everything you’re thinking and feeling, you know. But you’re right, we need to practice withholding things as well.”

Snape glared at him.

“And now you’re annoyed with me. It’s not my fault if I hit the nail on the head,” Harry said, and sent a quite pointed ball of warm affection through their frustrating little link, and Snape’s irritation dissipated.

“It has been a taxing day. Come lie down with me.”

Harry gave him a heated look.

“For a _nap_ ,” Snape clarified.

“Oh, fine,” Harry conceded with a smile, and followed him down the hall. They lay down on top of the blanket, tangled their limbs quite thoroughly, and fell asleep.


	30. Our Us

They had finished their training for the day and were sitting down to supper. After three days, they had made a reasonable amount of progress in controlling what went through their link, though Harry was much better at it than Snape. This, of course, irked him to no end. Even more irksome was that, while it did not show in his face in the least, Harry knew he was irked because he could bloody feel it.

In a conciliatory gesture, Harry cooked. The lasagna was, predictably, delicious, and Snape let go of his irritation for the moment.

“So, are you looking forward to getting out of here and back to your life?” Harry asked.

Snape looked thoughtfully at his food. In truth, he had almost forgotten that they were ever going to leave this place. He had forgotten that they _could_ leave, that they could exist elsewhere. The petulant five-year-old in him was screaming, ‘But I don’t _wanna_ exist elsewhere!’ The rest of Snape had to agree.

“Not particularly, no.” He took a bite of lasagna, but he could no longer taste it. Did Harry want to leave? Had he tired of Snape already? Snape had been hoping—in the back of his mind, where he allowed himself to hope—for a few more months at least. He felt an aching despair creep up in him and threaten to overwhelm him.

“Calm down,” Harry said, “Since you’re not going to ask, me neither.”

“What, you can read my thoughts as well now?”

“No, I just know you too well.” Harry smirked.

Too well, indeed. “What are you going to tell your little friends about your summer vacation?” He tried to keep his tone nonchalant, like he might be referring to learning wandless magic, or Potions lessons.

He could tell Harry was uneasy—even if he had not been able to sense it, Harry always fidgeted when he was uneasy.

“I, er…I really don’t know. What do you think I should tell them?”

“They are your friends, Harry.”

“I know, I know. I want to tell them everything, but I don’t know how they’re going to take it. Ron can be a bit…quick to judge.”

Then suddenly Harry got very worried. He was obviously trying not to let it show in his body language, but he was too upset to keep it from filtering through the link.

“What is it?” Snape asked.

Harry looked up and furrowed his brow. “When we leave, when we get back to school…what’s going to happen?”

“Happen?”

“With our…with us.”

For the briefest moment, Snape felt almost giddy at the idea that they were a ‘them,’ they were an ‘us’. Then…oh. Oh sweet Merlin. Snape had not thought about that. Why hadn’t he thought about that? He should have a plan, why did he not have a plan already? 

He focused on Harry’s worried feeling, trying to discern precisely what he was worried about. Was he worried that he and Snape would be apart? Or was he worried that Snape would want to continue their…whatever it was they had, their ‘us’-ness, and that everyone would find out the nefarious acts he had committed this summer with the disgusting, old, evil Potions Master? Snape could not tell. 

“What do you want to happen?” Snape asked finally.

Harry looked at him for a long moment, then down at his plate. Softly, he said, “I don’t know if I could do without you. I…I want…I’m not trying to guilt you into anything—not that I think that would work—I’m just telling you what I want. Because you asked. What happens now is totally up to you.”

Snape nearly smiled—Harry wanted to keep him. For a little while, at least.

“I have no wish to put an end to our…us. Though, I must say, discretion would be a good idea.”

Harry let out the breath he had been holding and smiled. “Good,” he said. “It’s your turn.”

“Right. Do you suppose you will continue with your little army this term?

Harry blushed a bit. “Well, I guess it depends on who our new DADA professor is. We only formed the DA because Umbridge wasn’t teaching us anything.”

Snape nodded.

“Will we be able to continue our lessons? I don’t know enough yet,” Harry said, worried again.

“I have no doubt that the headmaster will insist upon it when he discovers he can put us in the same room without endangering our lives. Though I must say, while your determination is admirable, you are by no means ignorant. The Dark Lord has a formidable opponent waiting for him.”

“ ‘By no means ignorant’…Why Severus, I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Oh, sod off.” Snape needed to think of another question, but it was difficult at the moment. Harry did not use his given name often, and it was a good thing because every time he did, Snape got a feeling in his stomach like he was falling.

“Are you going to attempt to gain entry to my NEWT-level Potions class?”

“Yeah, definitely. What exactly do I need to do?”

“Ultimately, it is up to me whether I will allow you in or not. But since I have already denied you entry, you must submit a petition to the headmaster,” Snape explained, “He will read it and, if he wishes, formally ask me to reconsider your admission. At that point, I will likely set you an exam to reassess your abilities.”

“Right, okay. Good to know. Guess I need to do some revising.”

“It would be wise,” Snape advised. “Will your friends be joining you in the class?”

“I don’t really know,” Harry answered. “We didn’t have time to exchange OWL results before I was, you know, whisked away. Though I’m sure Hermione got an O, and if I know her, she’s going to take every course she’s allowed to take.” He paused. “Are people going to notice that we’re more powerful? It seems like something we should keep to ourselves if we can.”

“The students certainly will not, not if we are careful, but Albus will sense it immediately. I suspect Minerva will as well.”

“What are we going to tell them?”

“I do not know. We will have to tell them something.”

“I wonder what it would be like now,” Harry said, talking to himself.

“To what are you referring?” Snape asked.

“Oh, your magic. I wonder what it would feel like, now that you’re so much more powerful.” Harry’s cheeks tinged pink.

Snape had not considered that. Now he wanted to know what Harry’s magic felt like, he was almost desperate for it. “Let me feel it,” Snape entreated.

“You first,” Harry said.

Snape just looked at him.

“Fine. Together?”

Snape nodded, and they closed their eyes. Snape concentrated on building up magic without tying it to a spell, but as soon as he had an appreciable amount, he felt the first tingles of Harry’s magic brushing against him and almost let it slip away. 

He managed to hold onto it, as it got a little easier to focus on his own magic while still enjoying the feeling of Harry’s surrounding him. Soon, he could feel Harry’s magic moving in his body, traveling up his arms and legs, swirling in his head. Snape thought he might burst with joy, which was a thought he had never had before. There was a comfortable weight around him, like being wrapped in a heavy blanket on Midwinter’s Day.

And it was all Harry. He could feel Harry inside himself and all around him, brushing lightly against his skin, and it was perfect.

When he could stand the rapture no longer, he opened his eyes and was surprised to find that he and Harry were standing in the middle of the kitchen, breathing heavily and clinging to one another. Harry’s magic dissipated, and he opened his eyes and smiled.

“We should do that every day,” Harry suggested.

“I do not know if I would survive it,” Snape said. He let a small smile tug at his lips and trailed the back of his hand down Harry’s face, reveling in the feeling.


	31. Best Laid Plans

For the next week, they went back to practicing dueling techniques and reading up on anything Snape thought might be useful to Harry in defeating the Dark Lord. Snape was keenly aware that their time in together in the safe house was drawing to a close, and tried to spend most of his time working so as to avoid thinking.

This plan came to an abrupt halt when their morning lesson was interrupted by the quiet pop of an apparition.

“Aberforth?” Snape said in surprise, lowering the wand he had drawn.

“Severus, lad, good to see you. And you, Harry,” the old man said convivially.

Harry spoke up. “What are you doing here?”

Snape was wondering the same thing.

“Well, as this is my property, I should think you would not mind my visiting,” Abe said, grinning all the while, “But, to answer your question, young man, I am here to escort the two of you back to Hogwarts.”

Snape felt his body tense involuntarily, ready to bolt. He resisted the juvenile urge to shout, ‘Make me!’ Merlin, these months with Harry had taken their toll.

“Already?” Harry asked dejectedly. “I thought term didn’t start for another four days.”

“Three. Summer break always seems too short, does it not?” Abe said, still smiling.

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt in response.

“So this is your place?” Harry asked. “Thanks for letting us use it—it’s been great.” He paused and cocked his head to the side before asking, “How far underground is it?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Abe answered, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to not know or care where one’s own property was. Snape suspected he was not being entirely truthful, but could not bring himself to care enough to make an issue of it.

Having finally gotten enough control of himself to think properly, Snake asked, “So the leak has been found?”

“Yes, yes, lad. I shall leave Albus to tell you all about it, if you don’t mind. Meanwhile, it is time you were going—the portkey,” he help up a Cauldron Cake, “will be activating in precisely one minute. Do not worry about your things—you will find them in your rooms soon enough.”

Snape and Harry reluctantly stretched their hands out to touch the portkey, making as little contact with it as possible. His eyes met Harry’s and held his gaze, then Snape felt the familiar tugging sensation as they were whisked away.

They were deposited in Dumbledore’s office. Well, Harry and Snape were—Aberforth must have let go of the Cake and stayed behind—though it seemed Harry had been more ‘thrown’ than ‘deposited’ as he was sprawled gracelessly on the floor.

Snape realized he was about to smile at the sight and stopped himself.

“Ah, Severus, Harry. Welcome back, welcome back,” Dumbledore effused, “I trust you passed your summer in pleasant and worthy pursuits? Tea?”

Dumbledore’s coral pink robes were twinkling—much like his maddening blue eyes—where small heart-shaped areas caught the light. Was that _glitter_?

Snape was not in the mood for small talk, and Harry was still picking himself up off the floor, so he got right to it. “Who was it?”

“Dedalus Diggle, I’m afraid. I shall not go into detail, but we discovered him three days ago. He is in good hands.”

Snape opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut him off. “No, you may not see him.”

“But Albus!” It wasn’t as if he was going to kill him—certainly not immediately.

“He will be punished quite enough without having to feel your wrath as well. Now then, the other students will be arriving the day after tomorrow, so you should have plenty of time to reacquaint yourselves with the place.”

Snape, eager to leave, spun on his heel to do just that, but Dumbledore stopped him.

“Severus, wait.” The tone, more than the words, gave Snape pause. The headmaster sounded confused and concerned, which was more than enough to disturb Snape. He stopped and looked back and Dumbledore over his shoulder. “Yes?” He could guess what was coming.

Dumbledore looked at him very closely, then turned his gaze on Harry. “You have gained quite a lot of magical power since last we met—both of you. What could have happened?” He tilted his head quizzically.

Snape got the impression he was talking to himself, so did not answer. Harry looked quite at a loss as to what to do and kept his silence as well.

“Ah,” Dumbledore said after a moment, the twinkle in his eye increasing ever-so-slightly, “I shall not pry. Tell me if you wish, but your business is your own.”

That was certainly not like anything he had ever heard the man say. Not pry? Was he ill? Snape decided he did not care if it worked to his advantage and seized the opportunity to sweep out of the office.

The first place he went was his classroom to survey the damage. As he suspected, the room was still in an advanced state of disarray from the end of last term. It took him several hours, but he finally restored a semblance of order. Next, he stepped into the adjacent office and tackled the mounds of paperwork obscuring his desk. By the time he finished, he was exhausted and hungry, so he summoned a house elf and requested supper, which he ate at his desk.

Having gotten most of his more onerous tasks out of the way, he gratefully made his way to his quarters. The flash of relief he experienced upon his arrival was short-lived, however. He had always been quite fond of his rooms at Hogwarts and had thought he was rather anxious to see them again, but it was decidedly _not_ where he wanted to be.

His internal grumbling was interrupted by a tentative knock on his door. Probably one of his meddlesome colleagues, come to ask him a tedious favor in a manner that left him no choice but to accept. He was certain they did it just to irritate him. He lowered his wards and bellowed, “Enter,” in a tone that clearly indicated he would like the would-be intruder to do just the opposite.

The door opened and Harry stepped through.

Perhaps this was not the worst place to be, after all.

“Harry.”

“Severus.”

They stood looking at one another for an eternally long moment before Harry launched himself into Snape’s arms and cried, “Oh, I missed you!”

“It has only been about twelve hours,” Snape said—though he was holding onto Harry just as tightly as Harry was holding onto him—then took a moment to get his professorial duties out of the way. “You should not be wandering the castle at this time of night.” It was made somewhat less professorial by the fact that he whispered it against Harry’s ear, but at least he had said it.

Harry smirked. “I’m not wandering anymore, I’m staying right where I am.” He took a moment to look around. “I like it here.”

“Well, if that is the case, I can have no objection.”

The next morning, after a meeting with Dumbledore, in which he—just as Snape had predicted—insisted they continue Defense lessons, they sat down in Snape’s rooms to formulate a plan.

“Okay, so how about Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, only Friday’s not really a lesson?” Harry proposed.

“It is not enough. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. And Friday is not really a lesson.”

“Okay, what time?” Harry asked.

“After dinner, say seven?” Harry nodded. “And three in the afternoon on Saturdays.”

“All right. What am I supposed to tell people these lessons are for? Not remedial Potions again,” Harry pleaded.

Snape considered for a moment. “As I am no longer obliged to pose as a Death Eater, there is no reason not to simply tell the truth—I am teaching you advanced Defense to aid you in defeating the Dark Lord.”

“Great. And in Potions class?”

“I am afraid we must maintain the guise of animosity if we are to keep our secret. I may be somewhat less harsh on you—on all the Gryffindors—but nothing drastic. And, of course, you will be once more Mr. Potter and I will be Professor or Sir. I do not know what I shall do about marking just yet, but I will think of something.” Snape furrowed his brow, already trying to come up with a way to avoid grading Harry’s assignments preferentially.

“Oh, and what about my exam to get in the class?”

Snape had almost forgotten about that. “Tomorrow, nine o’clock.”

“Okay, are we done with the planning then?”

Was he so anxious to leave? “Why, did you have some other business to attend to?” Snape asked. 

“Well yes, I did actually,” Harry said, then threaded his fingers through Snape’s hair and kissed him.


	32. The Practical Application of Physics

They did not leave Snape’s quarters at all the next day. If anyone wondered where they were, they weren’t asking.

Harry completed his exam in Snape’s personal laboratory. Snape had set a test very similar to the end-of-year exam he had given the class a few months ago, with some minor changes, and Harry did quite well.

“Congratulations, Mr. Potter. Welcome to NEWT Potions.”

“Well thanks. Can we have lunch now?”

Snape summoned a house elf and they sat down at the small wooden table to eat.

“Any idea whose turn it is?” Harry asked.

“None at all.”

“Okay, I declare it my turn,” Harry replied decisively.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

“What, do you object?” Harry asked.

“No. Please, proceed,” Snape answered, amused.

“Right, okay. A long time ago you mentioned the curse You-Know-Who uses when people say his name in front of him—what exactly does it do?”

Snape almost winced to think about it. He had not seen it performed in quite a while, but it forged the sort of memory that sticks with a person. “It sets the victim’s bones on fire—only their bones. They go mad, writhing about on the ground, trying to stop the burning, while their flesh remains intact and their bones slowly turn to ash. The process can take over an hour.” He closed his eyes. He had been quite instrumental in the invention of this curse, and it plagued him. “Promise me you will not call him Voldemort when you meet. Promise me, Harry.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Good,” Snape said, quite relieved. “So what did you do all day yesterday? I imagine you did not have any classrooms to scour.”

“No, thank goodness. I had tea with Hagrid and spent a lot of time up in the owlery with Hedwig.” Harry smiled. “I think she missed me, too,” he said and paused to ponder his next question. “Severus? I’m not trying to make a theme of this or anything, but I was wondering…have you ever Avada Kedavra-ed someone?”

Snape had never heard Avada Kedavra used as a verb before. In any other situation, it might have been funny. At the moment, it could not be less so. “Do you wish to know if I have killed, or if I have used the Killing Curse?”

Harry looked nervous. “Well, it’s just…using the Killing Curse splits your soul, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but is it a result of using the Curse, or the act of murder?”

“Are you saying that if you pushed someone off a cliff, it would split your soul, too?” Harry asked, sounding scandalized.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Snape answered. “But it seems to me that a man cannot commit murder and walk away unscathed,” he mused, then added matter-of-factly, “Yes, I have used the Killing Curse.”

Harry looked like he was in pain. “Merlin, I’m sorry.”

 _He_ was sorry? It made no sense at all at first—he should have been angry, betrayed, disgusted; after all, he had just been informed that the man in whom he had placed so much trust was a cold-blooded killer—but then Snape thought maybe he saw the problem.

“And yes, it split my soul. But it is simply fractured. It aches at times, but it is all here,” Snape said, gesturing toward himself.

“I know,” Harry said, his eyes shining with tears, “I know it’s there. You have a beautiful soul, and I’m sorry it has to ache.”

The next evening, Snape sat in his usual place at end of the professors’ table in the Great Hall. The first-years had been sorted and the customary Welcome Feast had just appeared.

He tried not to focus all his attention on the spot in the middle of the Gryffindor table where Harry sat, and managed to shift perhaps ten percent of it to his food and another quarter or so to ignoring the inane chatter and bustling that surrounded him.

Even on the best of days he did not appreciate crowds, especially those made up almost entirely of students, but after two months spent in near total isolation—and without the sounds of passing muggle cars, falling rain, birdsong, or even the wind howling through the trees to distract him—all the noise and incessant activity in the Hall completely unnerved him.

He gritted his teeth and skewered a piece of potato as if it had personally insulted him.

Then he felt a pang of anger from Harry and turned back to the Gryffindor table. Harry was red-faced and Weasley was looking pointedly in the opposite direction. Granger’s expression remained a mystery, as she had her back to him.

Harry shot him a quick glance and rolled his eyes, though Snape could tell he was still incensed. He made a mental note to ask him about it when next they met. 

At that thought, his mood darkened even further—he did not know when they would next be alone together, and it was a gloomy realization. He attempted to calm himself in case his dreary musings were filtering over their link, but the effort was largely futile.

When the feast was finally over and the headmaster had given all the standard warnings and instructions, Snape checked briefly on his charges in the Slytherin common room then gratefully headed back to his quarters. He had had far too much of _people_ for one day. Soon after he had gotten himself comfortably settled, there was a knocking on his door.

Probably some blasted first-year crying because he missed his blasted mummy. The brats lived to ruin his day, he was certain of it. After lowering his wards, he called, “Enter,” hoping his tone would not send the little imp into convulsive sobs. It had been known to happen.

But it was Harry.

“I was wondering if you would come tonight,” he said, relief flooding though him. “Won’t you be missed?”

“Nah, I told everyone that I thought some of my stuff was missing and needed to go ask Professor Dumbledore about it.”

“And they believed you?” Snape asked. Trust a bunch of Gryffindors to buy such a shaky story. “They did not think it odd that you had been here for two days and only just noticed?”

“Guess not,” Harry said, and kissed him soundly before he could reply.

Snape summoned all his will-power and pulled himself away very reluctantly. “You cannot stay long, Harry.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “I know. They were just driving me mad, and I had to come see you.”

That reminded Snape what he had been meaning to ask. “What did Mr. Weasley say during the feast that upset you so?”

“Oh, that.” Harry flushed slightly. “I told them we’d spent the last two months locked up together, and he went off about how miserable it must have been and what awful things had you done to me and was I scarred for life and…he sort of went on and on, really. And then…well, you know me, I couldn’t help it. I told him he was being a prat and I rather enjoyed my summer and he should think twice before saying things like that about anyone, much less someone like you.”

“So am I to assume you did not tell them our secret?”

“Of course not. I was pretty concerned he was going to jinx me just for that.”

“Well, it was very sweet of you,” Snape said, “But if you are not going to tell them, do try to be more discrete.”

Harry looked sheepish.

“Come here,” Snape said, and drew him into a kiss.

“Now get back to your common room before they send out a search party.”

Harry smiled. “You know Gryffindors—always trying to rescue people, especially when they don’t need it,” he said, and left.

The next day, classes began. It happened every year, but Snape always managed to be surprised by the utter ineptitude of his students. He got through the day mostly by sneaking mental glances at Harry when he had a spare moment, and consoled himself with the fact that it was Monday, and Harry would be coming to his office that evening for his DADA lesson.

At five to seven, there was a knocking on the door. He knew it was Harry, and told him to come in. Snape was seated at the desk in the classroom, but Harry pointed toward the door to his office. Snape took the hint, and they relocated there.

Once inside, Harry still did not speak and gestured at the closed door. Snape cast a few wards and silencing spells on it, and asked, “Well?”

Harry handed him a slim volume bound in worn pink leather— _Magical Bonds_.

“I mentioned the, uh, _incident_ to Hermione—hypothetically of course. She did give me that creepy look like she knows exactly what I’m talking about, but she didn’t call me on it. Anyway, chapter eleven.”

Snape flipped to the page. He scanned it and caught the phrase ‘soul mates’. “Are you serious? This is rubbish—it’s a _myth_.” Surely Granger was more sensible than this? Only twelve-year-old girls bought into this sort of thing.

“Why don’t I just tell you what it says, then. When two witches or wizards make a ‘meaningful connection’—the specifics can vary—it can result in a bond. This only happens once; repetition of the activity doesn’t change anything. To the eye, it looks like a very bright, glittery, sparkly light surrounding the two people. Sound familiar?”

Snape did not respond, so Harry kept going. “The colour of the light is very important—it indicates what kind of bond has been made. There’s a table on the next page.” Snape did not turn to it. Harry sighed. “Fine. There are three kinds: blue light means a soul bond, green means a magic bond, and red means a heart bond—a love bond.”

Snape couldn’t believe he was even listening to this tripe, much less considering it, but he found—to his complete horror—that he was.

“And white?” he asked finally.

Harry hesitated. “Well, it’s not in the table, just those three. In fact, it never mentions white at all. But think about it—what do you get when you combine red, blue, and green light?”


	33. Gryffindor Pluck

It was Friday evening, and Snape sat at the desk in his quarters with a stack of homework in front of him. He had announced to all his classes that they were to write their names only on the back of their parchment so he would not see it when he marked them, as he was beginning to dislike some of them so much that it was bound to reflect poorly on their grades. 

He had also managed to insult Harry at least twice during class and avoid gazing at him almost entirely. Harry was not quite so successful in the inappropriate gazing department, but no one besides Snape could really see his eyes anyway, and Snape was not going to worry about it. 

So now he was able to safely mark the homework.

He, however, was not marking the homework. 

His quill was in his hand, his red ink pot nearby, but he was not even thinking about marking the homework. He was too distracted with waiting for Harry to arrive. He had even keyed the wards to allow him entry.

They had spent most of Monday evening studying _Magical Bonds_. They discovered that each of the three types of bonds had it’s own particular perk: with the soul bond, the bonded were able to see one another at any time in their mind’s eye and sense when the other was in danger; with the heart bond, the bonded could feel one another’s emotions; and with the magic bond, the magical power of the bonded was combined, and they each had complete access to it. The whole idea was seeming less and less a myth, Snape had to admit.

Then Wednesday they had actually focused on Defense training for two hours. They had practically destroyed the classroom Snape had chosen for them to practice in. But now it was Friday, and while everyone else thought they had a lesson scheduled, what they actually had scheduled was dinner and Snape was quite looking forward to it. They had both gone to the Great Hall for supper and carefully shifted food around on their plates to make it look like they’d eaten. So yes, Snape was distracted with waiting for Harry’s arrival and was not marking the homework as he ought to have been doing.

Instead, he found himself wondering where exactly the windows would be placed in his rooms if they were a freestanding structure, like a house. Or a cottage. 

Would there be one in the sitting room next to the door? Or over the bed? Or on the far wall of his potions laboratory? Or, most importantly, over the little wooden table where the house elves had already assembled their dinner for two?

Why did his rooms have to be in the dungeons? One could not very well have drapes if one did not have any windows. He knew for a fact that Minerva, whose rooms were on the seventh floor near her precious Gryffindors, had windows, but try as he might he could not recall whether or not they were curtained. Probably not—it would be just like Minerva to have the luxury of windows and not take full advantage.

So he sat, quill poised, ink pot at hand, lamenting the fact that Salazar Slytherin had chosen, of all the possibilities in rambling Hogwarts Castle, the _dungeons_ to accommodate his house.

Because of this, when he heard the door to his quarters open and close, he was able to quite easily pretend to have been doing nothing other than marking homework for the last half hour.

He spun his chair to face the door. “Harry, how are—” Snape began, but stopped when he saw Harry’s face. He could not tell if he was about to cry or start screaming, but he was certainly upset. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

Harry flung himself down on the couch. “No.”

Snape went over and sat next to Harry on the couch. “Are you going to tell me, or shall I ask?”

Harry sighed. “I decided I was tired of lying to my best friends. But I didn’t want to hit them with it all at once, so I decided to do it in pieces. So, because I have obviously completely lost my mind, after supper tonight I told them I was gay.”

Obviously, it had not gone well. “That was a brave thing to do, Mr. Gryffindor.”

“Yeah, brave and stupid. Maybe if I’d let that bloody hat have his way, I’d have known better.”

Hat? What did a hat have to do with anything? Snape put it aside for the moment in favor of focusing on the obvious. “So you told them. And then?” he prompted.

Harry sighed again. “Predictable, really. Hermione said she’d suspected for a while and thanked me for trusting her and sharing a confidence. Ron, on the other hand, went off on me. ‘Are you mental? That’s disgusting. You just keep your hands off me.’ As if I would ever be even remotely attracted to him! He’s like a brother to me—or he was.”

“Is that all?” Snape was sure that it was not.

“Not exactly. He got me so riled up that I accidentally turned his hair pink.”

“You accidentally turned his hair pink.” Snape just wanted to be sure he had heard right.

“Yep, I accidentally turned his hair pink. At that point, he said he was never coming near me again and stormed off.”

Snape carded his fingers through Harry’s hair in an attempt to calm him. “You know better than anyone that it is in his nature to make snap judgments, foolish as they may be. I am certain he will change his mind. And if not, surely Granger will change it for him.” 

A half-smile crept onto Harry’s face. “She’ll certainly try. And she _is_ pretty persuasive.”

“Come now, it is time to eat.”

Once they were seated, Snape could contain his curiosity no longer. “What was that about a hat?” he asked.

Harry burst out laughing.

When he recovered, he explained, “The sorting hat. It wanted to put me in Slytherin.”

No. That could not be. That was completely impossible. Wasn’t it? Thestrals would sooner start living in rabbit holes. Wouldn’t they?

“Why did it not?” he asked finally. “The sorting hat does not generally take suggestions.”

“I asked it not to.”

Snape was affronted. “Why ever not?” he demanded. 

“Mostly because Malfoy insulted the Weasleys, and they were my friends. That and I was told that most dark wizards and witches came out of Slytherin. At that point, pretty much all I knew about anything was there was a big, scary dark wizard after me, so I practically begged it to change its mind when it mentioned Slytherin.”

Snape was glaring at him.

“Well, I realize now that it was rather stupid, of course,” Harry admitted. “But based on the information I had at the time, which you must admit was sketchy at best, I made the decision I thought was right.”

Snape narrowed his eyes. He could not really argue with the logic of Harry’s argument, but…still.

“Oh, stop it. I’m sorry, okay? I, Harry James Potter, hereby make a formal apology to anyone with ears to hear me for thinking ill of the great and noble House of Slytherin,” he said, sounding like some sort of public service announcement. “Someone else is going to have to apologize for Malfoy, though. Even I can’t be held responsible for… _that_.”

Snape laughed.

And Harry stared at him, agape.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before,” Harry said, and started laughing himself. “I like it, though. You should do it more often.”

“You are rather plucky, aren’t you? But I certainly shall not,” Snape said. “I have a meticulously crafted reputation to protect, you know.”

“Whatever,” Harry said smiling, “You don’t fool me.”

It seemed Harry had eaten as much as he was going to, because he put down his fork and came over to Snape.

He stood there fidgeting for a moment before he spoke. “Remember the book? When it said ‘repetition of the events surrounding the initial connection does not have any effect on the bond that has been created’, did you read that part?”

Snape had read that part. Twice. Okay, fine, three times. In fact, he had had quite a hard time not dwelling on it for the past four days.

“I read the whole book, you know that,” Snape said.

“So you, you know, read the part where it says it won’t change anything? That nothing will happen? We can do whatever we want now, with no more ‘unforeseen consequences’?” Harry asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I did,” Snape replied nonchalantly.

It was too much for Harry. “Then would you please stop tormenting me by sitting there, all appealing and graceful and beautiful and articulate and _smug_ , and take me into the bedroom?”

Harry tugged on Snape’s robes, but he could only sit there, dazed and bewildered. Graceful? Appealing? _Beautiful_?

“Come on, you’ll make me think you don’t want me anymore,” Harry said, obviously trying for a joking tone, but quite clearly terrified at the prospect.

“I do, Harry. I want you,” Snape said and stood, taking Harry’s hand. “Come with me.”


	34. I Can Die Happy

It was Sunday night—or Monday morning, really—and Snape could not sleep. Generally speaking, the lack of evenings filled with torturing innocents or writhing under the Cruciatus left him much more able to get a good night’s rest. For this reason, among myriad others, he was rather glad to be rid of his brand. But there was no sleep for him tonight.

Term had started a little over a month ago, and while Snape was beginning to get used to their arrangement, he would never like it. The freedom he had found in his captivity had vanished with their return to Hogwarts, and he now only saw Harry four times a week for their defense lessons. 

And at meals and Potions, of course, but those hardly counted. He was forced to ignore Harry at best, and at worst make scathing remarks and sneer at him. Not that it was difficult—such things came quite easily to him. And most of the time, he could tell Harry was amused by his comments. But every now and then, he would go too far, say just the wrong thing. When that happened, the look on Harry’s face was like torture.

He knew neither one of them could keep it up much longer without breaking, so this week, Snape had been slowly letting up on him in class. Harry really was much better at brewing now that he paid attention, so that made things just a little easier. Snape had even given him a compliment—one veiled in contempt, underhanded, and spat with vehemence, but a compliment nonetheless—that morning in Potions. It had made Harry so happy that Snape had almost returned his smile.

But that would not do, that would be going too far. People would suspect something untoward if he acted like he actually liked the shining star of Gryffindor, bane of his existence. Though despite his and Harry’s best intentions, he was sure that Granger suspected something. She had accepted Harry’s homosexuality, and even gotten the recalcitrant Weasley to apologize for his atrocious behavior, but Harry was still reluctant to tell his best friends the truth about their…them. Granger had been giving Snape some very significant looks, but he could not quite discern their meaning.

He consoled himself with the thought that if she knew and had wanted to tell anyone, she would have already done so. While there were no rules against student-teacher…involvement, it would be anything but well received. Harry was underage. The public would label Snape a pederast—which he supposed was technically true; Snape was of the opinion that Harry was no boy and had not been for some time, but the fact remained that he was sixteen years old—and rush to Harry’s defense. They would try to ‘protect’ their chosen one from the vile ex-Death Eater of a Potions Master who was having his filthy way with him.

And perhaps they would be right. Certainly, Harry would be better off without him, with someone young and happy and good, who could give him everything he needed. But, try as he might, Snape could not deny the fact that the thought scared him silly, so for now he would do everything in his power to prevent it.

At the moment, however, it was the middle of the night and there was not much he could do toward that end. He had seen Harry for their lesson only yesterday afternoon, but he would not see him again until tomorrow evening and Snape missed him in a way that was almost painful. So he lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching Harry sleep.

Three weeks passed, and Snape found himself sitting in the Great Hall, picking at his supper. It was the annual Halloween Feast—laughter filled the air, first-years happily shrieked as bats swooped too close, and the food (he heard several people say) was delicious. But he did not share in the merriment.

This in itself was not unusual in the slightest, but at that particular time, it was due to an unnerving foreboding he had been experiencing since four o’clock that morning, when he had suddenly awakened for no reason at all. Needless to say, his first period class of second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had gone even worse than usual, but thus far the day had progressed without considerable incident.

Snape knew it would not last.

He stabbed contentiously at his food.

Harry sat in his usual place at the Gryffindor table with Granger and Weasley. They were all in a merry mood, joking and laughing, infected with the gaiety of the Feast. Harry had been talking more and more about letting the two in on their secret—he said he wanted them to know how happy Snape made him. So he had been spending a lot of time proactively placating them lately, and the three were on better terms than they had been in a long while.

Snape looked over at the trio again just in time to see Harry reach for a goblet of pumpkin juice and vanish. He immediately stood up, filled with both his own panic and Harry’s, which he tried frantically to put aside so he could think properly. It was a good thing he was so practiced at remaining cool in tense situations, or he would have been utterly lost.

He needed to know where Harry was, where he had gone, how much danger he was in. Tracing the portkey—the goblet had vanished along with Harry, so it seemed the logical conclusion—would be very difficult and take days. He immediately dismissed that idea—he needed to know _now_.

After what felt like an hour of trying to come up with a plan, though it was probably closer to five or ten seconds, Snape remembered. He almost stopped to berate himself for wasting precious time by not thinking of it sooner, but that would have defeated the purpose. 

He closed his eyes and thought of Harry, who slowly came into focus. He was conscious, thankfully, sitting on a floor panting, with anger in his eyes. Was he down because he was disoriented after portkeying, or because he had been put there? Snape tried to focus on his surroundings to discern where he was. And he recognized it.

He turned to the headmaster, who was also on his feet and looking intently at the conspicuous absence at the Gryffindor table, and shouted, “Malfoy Manor!”

With that, he tore through the Hall, out the front entrance, across the grounds to the edge of the wards and disapparated.

He arrived just outside the anti-apparition field surrounding the manor and started to run even before he could feel the ground under his feet. He heard the distant sound of several apparitions behind him, but he did not wait. He hoped they were Order members, there to help, but he needed to get to Harry as quickly as possible.

The wards around the manor were, of course, no longer keyed to allow him entry. But he had helped erect these wards, and Lucius, being the arrogant prick that he was, had apparently not thought to set new ones. Less than a minute later, Snape had the intricate wards completely dismantled and pressed on.

There were no guards at the front entrance—arrogance rearing its ugly head, once again. Well, Wormtail was there, but he was hardly an obstacle and Snape Petrified him without a second thought, then swept through the entryway to a hallway on the right. The room he had seen Harry in was the ballroom—the Dark Lord’s preferred venue for meetings held at the Malfoy Manor—and Snape knew the way well.

He automatically sidestepped the deep hole in the middle of the hall that was charmed to blend with the floor, avoided the fake doorway that led directly to a cell in the dungeons, and walked right through the wards set at the double-door entrance to the ballroom. He did not stop to dwell on it, but the last bit shocked him—either the Dark Lord had been neglecting security or Snape was even more powerful than he had thought.

Instead, he focused his attention on the forty or so Death Eaters standing with their backs to him in a semi-circle. He assumed Harry and the Dark Lord were in the center, and his suspicion was confirmed when he heard the hateful voice coming from the far side of the room.

“Harry, I’m so glad you could join us for the Halloween festivities!”

Harry did not answer. Snape could feel the fury and hatred coming off Harry in waves.

Snape took advantage of the fact that no one seemed to have noticed his arrival and cast nonverbal binding and silencing spells on the entire back row of Death Eaters. All twelve went down without a sound, tied with ropes that it would take them hours to extricate themselves from.

At that point, he heard the unmistakable sound of several approaching feet. 

It seemed many of the other occupants of the room did as well, and turned to see what the commotion was.

The first Order member reached the doorway—was that Minerva? Snape did not pause to check—and curses started flying. Snape did his best to avoid drawing attention to himself and make his way across the room to Harry.

The noise in the room was approaching deafening—it was a ballroom, after all, with the acoustics to go with it—but he finally inched close enough to hear what the two most important people in the room were saying.

“You are mine, now—they cannot save you, Harry. I have your wand, and you are at my mercy!”

“That’s what you think,” Harry spat and sent a powerful wandless stinging hex at him.

“Ahh!” the Dark Lord screamed, clutching at his unnaturally grey arm where the hex had hit him. “What is this!” he demanded, but he did not wait for an answer. Instead, he turned and hurried toward a set of double doors identical to the ones on the opposite side of the room. Harry started after him, and Snape wanted to follow, but at that moment, four Death Eaters surrounded him and he was forced to fight for his life. After all, he could not very well help Harry if he got himself incapacitated or killed.

Just before he reached the door, Harry turned back and caught his eye. Without thinking, Snape called, “I love you!”—a phrase he had not used even once in his life—and threw another curse. Harry raised his eyebrows, then turned to resume the chase.

Snape incapacitated his four attackers and tried again to go after Harry, but five more surrounded him. He was able to best three of his opponents before a jet of yellow light streaked toward him and he realized it was over. It was a curse he did not know, but he did recognize the magical signature of Lucius Malfoy even if he could not see his distinctive features behind his mask. He was at a loss as to how to block or deflect the unknown curse, and he did not have enough time to get out of the way.

The last thought in his rapidly clouding mind was that he was grateful that even if it had taken several months of denial and the heat of battle for him to realize it, at least Harry knew, and at least he now knew himself. At least he had had the chance to say it once. Then the darkness came and he could think no more.


	35. What You Said

Snape knew he was in the infirmary before he opened his eyes. Something about the sheets on the bed and the smell and the quiet. And the realization that if he was not hurt, he was most certainly dead, and every account of Hell he had ever heard included fire and some form of excruciating torture—as it was not exceedingly warm, he assumed he was not dead. That meant he must be in the infirmary.

That, and the fact that, while he was not exactly in pain, he could not quite feel his limbs.

He slowly became aware of a pleasant weight on his shoulder. He stirred and opened his eyes to find that the weight was Harry’s head.

Harry, gasped, sat up, and blurted, “I love you, too.”

Snape blinked.

“Never mind,” Harry hastily amended, “forget that for now. How do you feel?”

Snape opened his mouth to speak, but found his dry throat uncooperative. He turned to the bedside table, hoping to find a glass of water, and that was when he saw it. It was his first invention, his gift to Harry. 

And it was only half full.

Harry saw his raised eyebrow and followed his gaze. “Still works, after all these years. You did a good job.” Harry swallowed thickly. 

“They said you weren’t going to wake up.” He blinked back tears and gave a small smile. “But you did, you came back to me. Thank you, Severus,” he said, and handed Snape a glass of water, which he gratefully gulped down.

Snape had no idea what to say to that. He knew there were a couple of things in there that he needed to think about, but his brain felt fuzzy and sluggish. 

He settled on, “How long was I out?” He was appalled at the scratchy thickness in his voice, but there was nothing for it.

“About a month.” Harry’s voice, he noticed, was scratchy too, as if he had not been using it much.

Snape tried to think about the events that had led to his unconscious state, but his memory of the battle, while improving by the second, was still vague. “Is he dead?” he asked. Surely they would not be sitting here so calmly if he were not?

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure, exactly. I followed him into the next room, and we dueled. He, um, heard what you said and told me that when he was through with me, you were next, and starting saying all the awful things he was going to do to you.” Harry bit his lip, his expression anguished. “So I focused all my magic on wishing he was dead, and after a second he sort of exploded into shiny grey sand. I think the aurors gathered it up and have it in a jar somewhere at the Ministry.”

“Well done,” Snape croaked. He had known Harry’s intuitive magic would come in handy some day.

“And…everyone else?” He did not really want to know, but he had to ask.

Harry sighed a sigh that seemed terribly familiar to his thin body, like he had been sighing that sigh quite often of late. “Remus, Moody, Tonks, Sturgis Podmore, Fred, Ginny, Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Zacharias Smith, Ernie Macmillan, and Professor Flitwick.”

The list seemed just as familiar to Harry as the sigh, and he rattled if off like he had been reciting it over and over in his head for the last month.

Snape felt a pang somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, but he knew Harry was feeling it much more keenly. He also knew very well that there was nothing he could say. There were no words that could change what had happened. So he took Harry’s hand and held it as tightly as he could.

“What were students doing there at all?” Snape asked.

“Some of the DA heard where the action was and decided to get together and make their way to the manor on their own. It was sort of a good thing, from what I hear—the Order was outnumbered before they got there,” Harry explained.

“And the Death Eaters? Are they all in custody?”

“Not all. While we were dueling, he siphoned extra magic from some of them and they died—six or seven, I think. Two others died, too. Most were captured and are sitting in Azkaban awaiting trial. Five got away.”

Five was not so bad, Snape reasoned. Of course, that could change quite a bit, depending on who the five were. If they had a natural leader under whom to unite, they could cause a good deal of trouble.

“Malfoy?”

“Still at large. Along with Dolohov, Rabastan and Bellatrix Lestrange—Rodolphus was hit by a stray Killing Curse—and Nott.”

Well that was not good. They were five of the most dangerous Death Eaters, and more than one of them was hovering at the edge of sanity. The sooner they were caught, the better.

But thinking about Lucius brought something back to him. “He cursed me. What was it, does anyone know?” Just because he was awake now did not mean there would not be lasting damage from the curse.

Harry shook his head. “No, no one knows. Actually, they couldn’t find a single thing wrong with you.” He smiled and added, “You know, other than the fact that you were unconscious for a month.”

Four days later, Poppy was still refusing to let him leave, and Snape was livid.

“Out of my way, woman, before I curse you!” he threatened.

“Don’t be silly, Severus, you don’t even have your wand,” she chided, trying in vain to steer him back to his hospital bed.

She was right, he realized—he did not have his wand, and he hadn’t noticed. Of course, there was a fairly good reason for that. “I don’t bloody well need it, so stand aside or I will be forced to incapacitate you!”

“I think he means it, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said from the doorway, grinning. “And really, if he can yell that much without collapsing, then he’s probably doing okay, don’t you think?”

There was a moment of tense silence before Poppy hung her head. “Fine, go. But stick to your rooms and no strenuous activities and get plenty of rest and you COME BACK HERE AT THE FIRST SIGN OF TROUBLE!” The last bit was screamed at his back from the doorway as he hurried down the corridor with Harry on his heels.

Once they were safely in his quarters and Snape had set up enough wards to ensure that Poppy—or an entire army or aurors, for that matter—would not be able to get in and drag him back to the abominable infirmary, Snape collapsed on the couch.

He really was fine, he just tired easily.

After taking a moment to recover, he summoned a house elf to bring them some decent food—“Something with salt in it, for Merlin’s sake!”—and he and Harry took up their usual places at the plain wooden table.

Poppy had been very strict about keeping unwanted visitors out of her infirmary, but now that he had escaped, he knew it was only a matter of time before everyone and his owl came knocking on his door, warded or no, wanting to yell at him or congratulate him or hear his version of the ‘final battle’ or hex him into next week. He knew it was only a matter of time, so he determined to get as much out of this evening as he could.

“So, Harry, what exactly have you been doing for the last month?” he asked.

“Not a lot, truth be told,” Harry answered. “After the battle was over and the aurors had taken all the Death Eaters away, Dumbledore rounded everyone up and portkeyed us back here. I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find you, and I couldn’t feel anything from you. I was so scared.

“Finally, I found you up in the infirmary. Madam Pomfrey said she couldn’t find anything wrong with you, but you weren’t waking up. She said if there had been something wrong, she could have tried to fix it, but as it was, she figured you’d be in a coma forever. That was…that was a bad couple of days for me. I don’t think I would have gotten through if it weren’t for that potion you gave me.”

“I am glad you had it, Harry, but I am sorry that you needed it,” Snape said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it wasn’t your fault. If I ever get my hands on Lucius Malfoy—” 

Harry clenched his fists and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “Anyway, I spent a lot of time in the hospital wing. Most everyone left to be with their families, so there weren’t too many people around. Dumbledore made me give one interview, but he kept it short, and I guess it’s important that people know what happened.”

Harry smirked. “Professor McGonagall asked me about what you said—she tried to be subtle about it, but I could tell she was itching to give us both a piece of her mind. Dumbledore, in typical fashion, didn’t seem the least bit surprised.”

That was the second time Harry had mentioned ‘what he said’. The first time, Snape could not remember what he was referring to. He remembered now, though, and he also remembered something else he had pushed out of his mind.

He struggled to find the words. “When I opened my eyes—when I woke up, and you were there, you…do you remember…did you…?” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was beyond awkward—he sounded like a lovesick little girl! 

He started again. “Harry—”

“It’s okay,” Harry interrupted, smiling. “I know what you’re trying to ask. Yes, I said I love you. Yes, I meant it. Yes, I still mean it—I love you, Severus. I didn’t know I did until you said it during the battle. I didn’t know I _could_. But I do, with all my heart.”

Snape’s heart was pounding in his chest. He dismissed it as a side-effect of spending a month in a coma and tried to get control of his voice.

“At the time, I thought those were going to be my last words.”

Harry nodded. “They’re good last words. But, all the same, I’m glad they weren’t.”

“Me, too,” Snape agreed.

Harry hesitated a moment before asking, “So, are you really okay? You don’t need to rest now or anything?”

“No, I really feel fine.”

Harry smiled, came over to his chair, and leaned down to kiss him. “I’m glad. Are you done eating?”

If the look in Harry’s eyes was anything to judge by, Snape was definitely done eating. He nodded, and Harry took his hand and pulled him toward the bedroom. Snape swiped the jar of lubricant—the very recipe he had been wishing for their first time together—off the dresser on their way into the room. 

Then, quite suddenly, he realized exactly what it was he wanted right then. It had never really occurred to him to ask for this before—it was simply not what they did. He could trace the path of the nervousness as it invaded him.

Harry looked back at him and cocked his head to the side, confused. “What is it, Severus?”

“I…”

Harry brushed his fingers softly through Snape’s hair. “What? Tell me.”

Shyness did not suit Snape, and he knew it. He swallowed, and remembered Harry’s words to him so long ago. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything, Severus,” Harry answered, his brow slightly furrowed.

“Will you show me what it’s supposed to be like?”

Harry’s shocked expression quickly turned into a warm smile. “Anything for you, Severus,” he said, then kissed him.


	36. Visitors

Snape woke with a pleasant ache pervading most of his body. He was almost delighted to be back in his own bed, warm and comfortable, with Harry still sleeping contentedly, curled against him.

He ran his fingers through Harry’s disheveled curls and murmured, “Good morning, Harry,” close to his ear.

The sleeping man stirred and made an unintelligible sound, but did not wake. Snape trailed light kisses along his jaw until he opened his eyes.

“Severus,” he muttered, half question and half greeting, and leaned up for a kiss. After he pressed their lips together for a lazy, open-mouthed kiss, Snape was able to shift his focus and think somewhat more clearly. At that point, it occurred to him for the first time that several people had witnessed his…declaration during the final battle. Had things changed? He would need to know where he stood.

“So, have you finally informed your little friends?” he asked, keeping the interest out of his inflection.

“Well, not exactly,” Harry responded groggily. “I told them we got to know each other a bit over the summer and that we were close. That was when Ron started calling you ‘greasy git’, and Hermione made me leave the room before I throttled him.”

“Close.” What in the name of Merlin did that mean?

“Yeah, close,” Harry repeated and snuggled up to Snape, who decided to put the matter aside for the moment.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“The seventh, I think,” Harry grumbled.

“No, what day of the week,” Snape clarified.

“Oh, um, Thursday?”

Snape tried to think what dunderhead Albus would have gotten to take over Potions while he had been incapacitated, but he could not bring to mind anyone even remotely competent. Much as he loathed the notion, he would have to get back to teaching as soon as possible, before all this students regressed to blithering nine-year-olds.

“I suppose we should extract ourselves from bed and get ready for class then,” Snape mused bitterly.

“Oh, no,” Harry corrected, “Professor Dumbledore has cancelled classes until Monday. Hermione was quite upset about it, but really it made sense. After Halloween, half the school was distraught over losing their friends or their parents getting arrested, and the other half was too giddy to focus on anything at all, so he sent everyone home.”

Well, that was a relief. He did not particularly want to see anyone or do anything that was not right here in this room.

“In that case,” Snape said and started to nibble on Harry’s ear.

Just when he got the moan he had been after, someone knocked on the door. Snape waited, but whoever it was seemed to be rather tenacious and kept knocking.

“Blast it all to hell,” he muttered and donned his dressing gown to get the door. He glowered at the person he found on the other side. 

“Minerva.” He said the name as if it were a curse. “Whatever it is had better be pressing,” he threatened.

She scowled at him and her eyes widened when she caught sight of Harry standing behind him wearing Snape’s bathrobe. “ ‘Had better be pressing’! Based on what I have seen thus far, I would say the matter is rather pressing, indeed.”

Snape sighed. He would never be able to get rid of her now. Also, he figured it was better to get this unpleasantness out of the way sooner rather than later, as putting her off would surely only make it worse. He pulled the door the rest of the way open and she swept inside, her deep maroon and navy tartan robes billowing behind her. 

“Morning, Professor,” Harry said, and she glared at him.

“Have a seat,” Snape instructed and conjured a cup of tea for her. “As you may well imagine, we were not expecting visitors at this ungodly hour, so if you will excuse us for a moment,” he said and grabbed Harry by the arm to pull him back into the bedroom. As soon as the door was closed, he thrust Harry’s clothes toward him and hissed, “Get dressed—quickly!” He found his own robes and they were soon clad in a manner much more appropriate for receiving quests.

Once they were seated in the main room, Snape got right to the point. “What was it you wanted?”

“Well, first I would like to know what you,” she looked sharply at Harry, “are doing here at this early hour.”

Snape and Harry looked at each other, but neither man spoke.

“Oh, never mind, I can guess very well what you were doing,” she said and shook her head as if to dislodge some unwelcome mental image.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “We were sleeping, if you must know.”

“Sleeping!” 

Snape wondered if she was planning to repeat _everything_ he said.

“Yes, yes,” she said dismissively, “Sleeping, of course you were. The reason I have come is to tell you that I hope you have both thought long and hard about this relationships of yours, before you just jump in with both feet.”

They made no response. Snape idly considered that if they both kept their mouths shut, she might just get bored of talking—or, rather, chastising with an ill-concealed threatening tone—to herself and leave them be. Unfortunately, they were probably still quite a way off from that point, however idyllic it seemed.

He was right—Minerva had more to say. “You have both been through so much, I would just hate to see you…torment yourselves. You deserve to have every happiness, but I am not convinced that is what will come of this.” She looked back and forth between the two of them, trying desperately for some response.

Snape could tell she had not yet voiced her main concern. There would be no getting rid of her until she had, so he sat back and waited.

After minute or so, she stood and threw her hands in the air. “Well what else is there to say!” She started toward the door, but Snape knew it would not be this easy—when the old cat caught the scent of something, she hunted it down mercilessly until she killed it. 

Halfway to the door she stopped, turned, and exhaled sharply. Here it comes—Snape mentally braced himself.

“I regret that I must be blunt, but I have to say that if anything happens to him—if you hurt him in any way, if you leave him suffering, if you…if you break his heart—I shall personally see to it that you regret your very existence, Mr. Potter!” 

With that, she went to the door in two long strides and slammed it behind her. Snape sat there blinking in wonder at the indifferent door.

It was Sunday, and the students had returned. He and Harry had hardly left his rooms since Poppy had released him, knowing that Harry would have to return to Gryffindor tower that night. They were just finishing supper when Snape heard angry whispers outside his door, followed by a cautious knock.

Snape opened the door to reveal Granger, who was smiling up at him, and Weasley, who seemed quite unwilling to look him in the eye. He did not relish having them in his private quarters, but quite frankly, he was impressed that they had held out this long and admitted them.

The four of them stood awkwardly in the middle of the room for a bit before Harry motioned his friends toward some chairs and they all took a seat. 

Granger spoke first. “Good evening, Professor. Hi, Harry.”

“Miss Granger.”

“Hey, Hermione. How was your break?” Harry asked.

“It was fine—relaxing.” She knew better than to inquire about his.

Weasley had been completely silent thus far, but was obviously bursting to say something. After a moment of silence, he blurted out, “Okay, what exactly is going on here? What are we doing at _Snape’s_ place!”

Snape glared at him and Weasley paled and shrank back in his chair.

Harry chuckled. “Relax, Ron, he’s not going to hex you. He’s not even mad—more amused, actually.”

“How do _you_ know?” Weasley asked, clearly disbelieving.

Granger answered for Harry. “Because he can feel it, isn’t that right? Oh, don’t look at me like that, Harry, I’ve suspected ever since I gave you that book at the beginning of term. So it was the red light then, the heart bond?”

Harry and Snape looked at each other, deciding how much to reveal. Snape gave a nigh imperceptible nod to indicate that Harry was free to say whatever he liked, and Harry explained, “Actually, it was all three—white light.”

Granger’s eyes went wide. “Oh my goodness, Harry, that’s almost unheard of!” she nearly squealed.

“Excuse me,” Weasley interjected, “but could somebody please tell me what the bloody hell is going on here?”

“Honestly, Ron.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re bonded—their hearts, souls, and magic have all bonded,” Granger explained, exasperated.

Then Weasley fainted.


	37. Everything's Changed

It was Friday night. Snape was dressed in his nightshirt and perched on the edge of his bed in a bit of a quandary over whether or not he should take a dose of Dream-filled Sleep. He had not taken any since term had started, but he hadn’t seen Harry—really seen him—in several days, and it was getting to him. All the professors were working hard to make up for the month of missed classes, so Harry had been spending almost all his time working on homework with his friends, and Snape thought that if he took the potion maybe—just maybe—he would dream of Harry.

He twirled the vial slowly in his hands, watching the shimmering, viscous liquid roll around inside. He did not look forward to having any more nightmares, but maybe it would be worth it if he could dream of Harry. And he had heard that sometimes people found meaning and clarity in their dreams that their conscious mind could not see. Snape thought he could do with a bit of meaning and clarity.

He took the dose before he could change his mind and slipped under the covers. He was apprehensive about falling asleep, but the soporific in the potion did not allow him to lay awake for long and he succumbed to unconsciousness.

_Lucius Malfoy growled and his grey eyes flashed with anger._

_“Do not stand without permission!_ Crucio _!” he cried, and the person standing in front of him fell to his knees in pain._

_Who was that?_

_Malfoy ended the curse after a few seconds and the man on the floor whimpered._

_“Now now, Potter, do not worry,” he cooed in a falsely sweet voice, “I promise to hurt you plenty more before this is over. You shall get what you deserve for killing the greatest wizard of all time and ruining our plans for a perfect world!”_

_No, it could not be Harry—anyone but him!_

_Why wasn’t Harry doing anything? Why did he not use wandless magic? Snape watched, helpless, as Malfoy cast the Cruciatus again. He held it longer this time and when he finally stopped, Harry was curled in a ball on the ground, shaking._

_‘Get up, Harry, get up!’ Snape wanted to shout. But his voice had deserted him._

_This must be my punishment, he thought. This is what I get for abandoning my defenses and letting myself feel. I have to watch the man I love be tortured. I have to watch Harry die._

_Then he saw the yellow light of the same strange curse that had been used on him streak from the end of Malfoy’s wand toward his Harry.  
_  
“Severus!” someone said and shook him by the shoulder, “Severus, wake up!”

Snape snapped his eyes open and found a Harry-shaped silhouette hovering over him and tried to pull himself back to reality.

“What are you doing here? What time is it?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“It’s about three in the morning. Were you having a nightmare?” he asked, running his fingers soothingly through Snape’s hair. “You were so upset it woke me up, and I came to check on you.”

He had known taking that confounded potion was a bad idea. “Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry. I did not mean—”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” Harry said, and crawled into the bed beside him. “Just go back to sleep.” He wrapped himself around Snape and brushed his lips across his exposed neck. He rubbed his thumb back and forth across Snape’s arm until they both drifted to sleep.  
 _  
Snape went into the kitchen to get dinner started. He filled a large pot with water and set a Boiling Charm on it, then turned away from it knowing the charm would not boil the water while he watched._

_He absently studied the drapes framing the window above the wooden table in the small breakfast nook. They were sky blue, with bright oranges, limes, and lemons scattered randomly. Certainly not what Snape would have chosen himself. But, he thought, if they make him happy, I can have no objection._

_He looked out the window to the garden beyond. It was small, but it was densely planted and they had everything they needed. The pixiehouse looked like it might fall off the fence at any moment, but he had strengthened the Sticking Charm on it so many times that he could probably not dislodge it even if he wanted to._

_He heard the water begin to boil and forced himself out of his musings to add some penne to the pot. He turned to the pan in which he had been cooking the sauce, decided it was probably done, and countered the Simmering Charm he had set on it. As he stirred the contents, he felt a pair of arms wrap around him from behind._

_He quickly spun around to make contact with a pair of bright green eyes. He smiled._

_“I’m sorry I’m late. Got held up.” The man tightened his grip on Snape for a moment, then raised his hand to Snape’s face. “You had some sauce,” he explained and licked his finger. He laid his head on Snape’s shoulder before continuing._

_“It’s good to be home. I love you, Severus. Mmm, that smells wonderful.”  
_  
Something tickled his face. He tried to swat it away, but it kept coming back. Finally, he opened his eyes and saw Harry smiling down at him, brushing his petite fingers over Snape’s cheeks.

“Morning,” Harry said.

“You stayed all night,” was Snape’s reply. Normally, he avoided stating the obvious as much as possible, but he had been awake for less than a minute and it was all he could think of to say.

“Yes. I wanted to be here for you if you had another nightmare.”

Ah, the nightmare. Snape could not quite recall the details, but he was fairly certain he did not want to. He gave Harry a kiss and said, “I’m going to shower.”

“If you must,” Harry said and they both got out of bed. “Oh, I came down here in just my pyjamas—can I borrow something?” Harry asked, and started to open a wardrobe-like cabinet, only it was not a wardrobe.

“No! Wait, that’s not—” 

But Harry already had it open. Snape could see the strings of the harp glinting in the light.

“Your mother’s?” Harry asked.

Snape nodded. He usually did not remove it from its hiding place unless he was very, very drunk. It was painful to look at the finely-crafted instrument, but he had trouble tearing his eyes away.

“Play me something?”

Snape wrenched his gaze from the harp to look at Harry. “What, now?”

Harry nodded. “You don’t have to—I know it hurts you. But would you? Please?”

He might as well, he supposed. He had already looked at the thing—the pain would not get much worse. At least now he had someone to with whom to share it.

“Very well,” he answered, and removed it from the cabinet. He carried it to the sitting room and Harry followed. He caressed the wooden neck, spent a couple of minutes tuning the strings—he had not touched it in many months—then closed his eyes and played.

When he finished, there was a moment of silence. Then Harry said, “Wow. What was that? It sounded so…bright, so colourful. It made me think of having fun and being hopeful.”

“It is a tune I made up long ago to accompany one of the songs from Peter Pan—‘Never Never Land’. When I was seven, my mother gave me a copy of the script to the Broadway musical. She told me it was okay to pretend sometimes that I was some place else, some place like Neverland.”

He’d tried it once, but it had not stopped his father from drinking too much or from taking out his frustration and hopelessness and anger on his family. It had not stopped him from breaking an empty whisky bottle over Snape’s head, just because it was empty. No, he could not journey to an island in the stars and he could not be invisible, no matter how hard he pretended.

“I like your version better than the real one—I always thought that song was meant to be happier.”

“Why, what was it like in the play?” Snape asked.

“It’s sort of sad, really. They showed it on the telly once and I listened from my…from my room. And when Peter sang that song, it sounded so melancholy. It was almost wistful, like he was singing about a dream or something instead of his home. I didn’t want it to be a dream.”

Snape shook his head. “Nor I.”

The following Saturday was a Hogsmeade day. It was the last before Christmas break, so almost everyone was going. Somehow, Snape had been induced to chaperone. He kept his distance from the students, including Harry, letting him spend some time with his friends. So he just walked a bit through the snow-covered streets and let his thoughts wander.

Classes were tiresome—more so than usual. The students were dazed, still figuring out how they were supposed to behave, how they were supposed to live their lives without the threat of the Dark Lord hanging over their heads. Harry, surprisingly enough, seemed to be having no trouble at all adjusting. His only complaint had been that, because he was no longer expected to best any dark wizards, he and Snape could no longer justify having their Defense lessons. Snape missed them too, but now that a few people knew and accepted that there was something between them, Harry could come down to the dungeons periodically for dinner and whatnot without having to lie through his teeth.

Many things had been different since he awoke in the hospital wing. It had only just sunk in, but the Dark Lord was well and truly dead, and ninety percent of his Death Eaters were incarcerated or dead as well. 

And while he knew the vast majority of the wizarding world still did not like him—which was fine; he did not much like them either—his innocence was on the record. It was fact, and everyone knew it. He could go out and do anything he pleased, and he would most likely not have to stave off any attempts on his life. As realizations went, this one was rather gratifying, even if he was not yet quite sure what to do with it.

“Severus. Hey, Severus!” Harry called. Snape looked back and saw Harry making his way toward him.

“Come shop with me some. Ron and Hermione ran off together and left me—I think they’re buying my Christmas present. So come on, keep me company for a while. As least until they come back.”

“Very well,” Snape said, and followed Harry to a small general store. He did not realize how cold it was outside until the door closed behind them and a gust of warm air hit his face and made his skin tingle. He trailed behind Harry, who dropped a package of biscuits and a bag of crisps into his basket and stopped in front of the tea.

“What do you think of this one? Sounds good, right?” Harry asked, holding a box out to Snape. 

‘Crazy Caramel Sensation White Tea’. It did not sound completely atrocious. Snape shrugged his shoulders. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to keep it in your rooms. Yours is too boring.”

It was just tea. Tea did not need a clever name to taste good, but Snape was not in the mood to argue about such things. “Very well, if you insist.”

Harry smiled and placed the box in his shopping basket.

When they left the general store, Harry stood on the sidewalk looking around, unsure where to go next.

“Have you purchased your Christmas gifts? Perhaps you should use the time away from your friends to do so,” Snape suggested.

“I suppose,” Harry answered. “You’d better stay here, then,” he said, and set off down the sidewalk.

It then occurred to Snape that perhaps he ought to take his own advice. He had never done much Christmas shopping before—the odd gift for Albus now and again was all he had ever needed—but this year was different. Harry had told him to stay here. Was he buying a gift for him?

Snape decided he had better get something for Harry just in case he was—it would not do to have nothing to give in return. But what in the world was he going to get?

By four o’clock, when it was time to escort the students back to the castle, Snape had been in every store in the village—some twice—and had not found anything even close to suitable. He supposed he would just have to make a trip after term was over. Maybe he could find something in Diagon Alley. He put it out of his head for the moment and led his charges back to the gates.


	38. The Work of the Ice Prince

“Say that again,” Harry instructed and trailed the back of his fingers up Snape’s arm. It made him shiver.

“Say what again?” He had been talking about an article in that morning’s _Daily Prophet_ —a witch, her muggle husband, and their three children had been brutally murdered. It was assumed to be the work of the five remaining Death Eaters—a neighbor had actually claimed to have spotted Bella Lestrange fleeing the scene.

“I don’t know, whatever you just said.”

“ ‘How frightening that the mind clings to reality by such a tenuous thread. How daunting it must be to stand upon the precipice, look insanity in the eye, and not shy away. How quickly the mind can abandon the waking world and turn to dreams, to nightmares’,” he repeated.

“Mmm, keep going,” Harry said in a low voice, his hands traveling everywhere.

“Whatever for?” Snape asked.

“You voice is making me crazy.” His fingers strayed into Snape’s hairline.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“So smooth and cool and…mmm, rich. Your voice does crazy things to me. Did I tell you about that time you made me come just from the sound of your voice—in the middle of Potions?” Harry murmured against his ear.

“You cannot be serious.”

“Perfectly,” he answered and sucked Snape’s earlobe into his mouth.

That was more than even Snape could resist, regardless of the fact that they had been on their way out the door to have lunch in the Great Hall, and he led them from the sitting room to the bedroom. They peeled each other’s clothing away and Harry pushed Snape back onto the bed. He swept his eyes down Snape’s naked body appraisingly, eyes hooded with lust.

“Merlin, Severus, you’re beautiful.”

For a blissful moment, Snape felt a warm, tight sensation in his chest, but it was quickly succeeded by a wave of nausea. He groaned and turned his head away.

“Oh no,” Harry said, “do you feel sick again?”

Snape did not answer—he did not particularly want to open his mouth—and Harry pulled away. He fought it, but the nausea overwhelmed him and he bolted for the bathroom.

This was the third time he had vomited since the end of term as many days ago, but that was not the worst of it. For the past week, his mind had grown inexplicably foggy at times and he had been experiencing blackouts and dizzy spells. They were getting steadily worse. And, while he had never really recovered from the fatigue that plagued him after the events on Halloween, he was sure it was getting worse as well. He had been knocking back doses of Invigoration Draught, Clear-Headed, and an anti-nausea potion like they were pumpkin juice.

Harry handed him a glass of water to rinse his mouth out. 

“You should really go see Madam Pomfrey.”

“I am sure it is only the after-effects of that infernal curse. It will go away soon.”

“But it isn’t going away! It’s only getting worse,” Harry insisted.

Snape stood up and started to say, “It is nothing to worry—” but as soon as he was upright, his head began to spin and he fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.

He came to as he was being settled into a bed in the infirmary. It was not a place he especially wanted to be.

“Really, Poppy, this is quite unnecessary.”

“I do not care to hear your opinion, Severus, now just lie still. I need a blood sample.” She pointed her wand at the inside of his elbow and a small glass vial in her hand slowly filled with his blood.

“There, you have your blood. May I go now?”

“You most certainly may not! Do not make me restrain you,” she threatened, and carried the vial off somewhere to run some tests on it.

He redirected his irritation toward Harry, who was seated in a chair next to his bed, and glared.

“Oh come on!” Harry exclaimed, “You collapsed, Severus. What was I supposed to do?”

Snape wanted to yell and scream and threaten, but he had to admit that his condition was steadily deteriorating. Before he could think about it any more, the fatigue claimed him and he fell asleep.

A few hours later, he awoke to the hushed voices of Albus and Poppy.

“But how could it have gotten into his system?” Poppy asked.

“I do not know, I am afraid,” the headmaster answered, “But I shall do my utmost to discover whoever is responsible for this.”

Harry spoke up. “He’s awake, Professor.”

“Ah, Severus, dear boy. How are you feeling?” he asked.

How was he feeling? His head ached and his limbs felt heavy and his mouth seemed to be filled with cotton and he was _still_ nauseous. “I am perfectly fine.”

“Nonsense,” Poppy said, and held out two vials potion. “Take these. Come now, drink up!”

He recognized the Sleeping Draught, but he eyed the other suspiciously.

“The antidote,” Albus explained, “to the poison that Poppy has found in your blood. I must insist that you take it immediately, if you would be so kind.” His eyes were decidedly less twinkley than usual.

Harry smiled at him and squeezed his hand, and he obediently downed the two vials. He never had been able to deny Albus anything.

When he woke, he found Albus, Poppy, and Harry all sitting around his bed, watching him expectantly. He was not in any pain, but he was certainly groggy, and it took him a couple of minutes to recall exactly what was going on.

“Poisoned?” he asked finally.

They nodded. Snape was flabbergasted. He was a Potions Master, for the love of Merlin! How was it possible that being poisoned had escaped his notice?

He could feel Harry’s concern, and his anger too. Who was he angry with?

“How?”

They looked around at one another, then the headmaster spoke. “Yesterday afternoon, a student unexpectedly knocked on my door. He was rather upset, and I think you can understand why—he suspected he had been Obliviated.”

He was not in the mood for a lengthy tale. Why could the man never just answer a question? “Albus, just tell me what happened. Who was the student?”

“Draco Malfoy. I was able to recover his memories, and he was quite distraught when he learned what he had done. It seems his father paid a visit to the manor shortly after Halloween and cast the Imperius Curse on his son. While everyone else was off enjoying themselves in Hogsmeade two weeks ago, he snuck into your rooms and poisoned your sugar bowl. Then he stopped by again just after term and erased Draco’s memory of it.”

Poisoned sugar! No wonder that confounded, ridiculously named tea tasted so strange—the tea that they had shared, he realized in horror.

“Harry!”

“It’s okay,” Harry said, “I’m fine. I only take milk in my tea, remember? Oh, I’m so sorry, Severus. This is all my fault. I asked you to—”

“No, Harry,” Snape interrupted, “Do not dare blame yourself. This is the work of that treacherous, loathsome, _arrogant_ little ice prince and no one else.” He had to fight hard to reign in his anger. Would the man never stop tormenting him? If Albus had his way, he would never even be able to exact revenge.

Harry nodded sheepishly and Snape turned back to Albus. “The antidote?”

“Has completely neutralized the poison.”

“And Malfoy?”

“Draco was able to inform me that all five unaccounted for Death Eaters were staying at the Lestrange Estate. After a rather long and arduous search, we were able to discover its location. They gave the aurors quite a fight, but they have all been taken into custody. And no,” he added quickly, “you may not see him. Nor you, Harry—I will not have that discussion with you yet again.”

Harry sighed, defeated before he could even renew his argument.

All five in custody—thank Merlin for that, at least. But a ‘long and arduous search’? “How long was I asleep?” Snape asked.

“Two days,” Poppy answered. “It took some time for the antidote to do its work. But now all is well and you may return to your rooms as soon as you feel up to it.”

She must have felt very sorry for him at some point—Snape could not recall her _ever_ releasing him without a shouting match, no matter how minor his injuries. He thought he had better take advantage of it before she changed her mind.


	39. Christmas Gifts

Snape spent the next couple of days recuperating and Harry stayed in the dungeons with him. In years past, Snape had always looked at the Christmas holidays with mixed feelings. He generally had more time to brew whatever he pleased, and nearly everyone left the castle, relieving him of the odious task of having to interact with much of anyone. He had relished the time to himself.

But now he had Harry with him. He had expected it to feel like an intrusion on his solitude, but he was actually finding it quite nice. Not that he would go saying it out loud or anything, but thought maybe he was beginning to understand why everyone got so worked up about the holidays.

After extensive cajoling, Snape finally convinced Harry to spend Christmas Eve at the Burrow. Ostensibly, this was because Harry had not seen his two best friends in a week and because Snape was still tiring rather easily and could do with a bit of rest. However, while it was true that Snape still felt fatigued often, he actually needed the time to find Harry’s Christmas present—he knew it was in his quarters somewhere, he just had not yet been able to lay his hands on it.

Snape had inherited nothing but a cramped, poky old house and debt from his muggle father, but when he had turned seventeen, he had received a letter from Gringotts along with the key to the Prince family vault. Though the Princes were an old and noble wizarding family, he had found that the vault was filled not with gold, but with heirlooms. 

There were countless objects—some he could not even identify—bearing the Prince family coat of arms, stacks of books in languages in he did not know (though he took trouble to rectify that as soon as he was able), bins filled to overflowing with official-looking rolls of parchment documenting everything from births and deaths to bills of sale on various properties, and more. He had gathered everything that looked interesting and taken it with him.

It had taken several years, but he had at last come to a fair understanding of the make-up of his inheritance, and he knew the perfect thing to give Harry. Now, if only he could find the blasted thing.

Finally, after virtually tearing his quarters to pieces, he found it. And only just in time too, because five minutes after he got the infernal thing wrapped, Harry returned from the Weasleys’. At that point, he was exhausted to the point of collapsing and went to bed early, leaving Harry to transfigure the coat rack into a tree and arrange all the gifts he had come back from the Burrow with as he saw fit.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear.

Harry, much to Snape’s dismay, woke up at six thirty.

“Come on, it’s Christmas! Don’t you want to open your presents?” Harry asked, bouncing slightly in his excitement.

Snape groaned. “They will still be there in an hour.”

“But it’s Christmas, Severus! Come on, wake up, sleepy,” Harry entreated, tugging on Snape’s hand. Snape thought Harry was acting rather like a six-year-old, and that it was utterly adorable. He allowed himself to be led to the couch.

“Can we not have a cup of tea, at least?” he asked. Harry ignored him and dove under the tree, so took that as a ‘no’. 

Harry started sorting the gifts, and Snape was surprised to see a pile of them accumulating at his feet. He usually got one present, or, very occasionally, two—were those really all for him?

“You’re not going to find out what’s inside by staring at them, I can guarantee you,” Harry said, drawing him out of his thoughts, and they proceeded to take turns opening their presents.

Harry got a book from Granger that looked boring even to Snape, a box full of candy from Weasley, various prank items from George, owl treats from Hagrid, a pair of socks with the Gryffindor crest on a highlighter yellow background from the headmaster, and the customary Weasley jumper from the family matriarch, which he immediately slipped on over his pyjama top.

Snape, he was oddly pleased yet still somewhat horrified to find, got one too.

“You have to put in on!” Harry insisted.

Snape did no such thing.

He also had a cauldron cleaning kit from the remaining Weasley twin, a subscription to the _Proceedings of the European Society for Experimental Potions_ from Granger, a vial of something that looked suspiciously like shampoo from Weasley, and a bottle of Bifferty’s single malt scotch from Albus.

Minerva had gotten them a joint gift of tickets to the upcoming match between the Quidditch rivals the Ballycastle Bats and the Pride of Portree. Snape imagined she was laughing at him wherever she was.

Then all they had left was their gifts to each other.

Harry went first.

He tore away the plain brown paper to reveal a flat, square box, which he stared at for a while. Finally, he pulled the lid off and held up the item he found inside—a snake pendent carved out of jade. It was small, barely more than an inch long, and hung from a thin, black leather cord.

“It’s beautiful,” Harry said.

“It belonged to my great-great-grandfather, Ignatius Prince. It is said to have been given to him by his true love.” Snape looked away, suddenly uneasy. Perhaps it had been too much, carried too much sappy connotation. Harry would think he was being silly. Well, he could not very well take it back now, so he finished his speech. “It is also imbued with a Locator Spell, so that if I ever lose you, I can find you again.”

Harry held the necklace out to him, and for a moment Snape thought he was giving it back. But then he leaned forward and lowered his head, and Snape slipped the cord around his neck.

“I’ll never take it off,” Harry promised. “I can’t believe you would give me something so important—I mean, it was your great-great-grandfather’s, it’s a Prince family heirloom!”

“There is no one else I would rather wear it.”

Harry smiled. “Thank you, Severus.”

So then it was Snape’s turn. His gift from Harry was distinctly book-shaped. Once he got the wrapping, of which there was quite a lot, off, he discovered that this was because it was, in fact, a book. It was fairly small and bound in rich black leather with the title embossed in silver.

_Bewitch the Mind and Ensnare the Senses: Original Potions by Severus Snape._

What the bloody hell was this? He turned, confused, to the table of contents. They were all there—or most of them, anyway. His inventions, his life’s work.

His Wolfsbane recipe.

The lubrication potion he and Harry enjoyed so much.

Dream-filled Sleep.

The potion he had given Harry for his birthday, which he had apparently decided to call the ‘Draught to Carry On’.

The Bubblehead Potion.

His special Veritaserum recipe. His, unlike the ministry’s version that lasted ten hours and left the drinker with a terrible hangover, lasted precisely one hour and had no ill effects whatsoever.

The list went on—thirty in all.

“Harry, I do not know what to…How did you even…Where did you find…?” Snape’s mouth and his brain appeared to be having some trouble communicating with one another. Fortunately, Harry seemed to understand him anyway.

“Professor Dumbledore helped me a lot,” he said, then hesitated. “So…do you like it okay? I hope so—the publisher said he already has several dozen orders.” He chuckled nervously.

Did he _like_ it? “Harry, I love it. This means so much to me—I cannot thank you enough.”

Snape started to pull Harry into a hug, but the overwhelming urge to vomit stopped him and instead he ran for the bathroom. Harry followed and held his hair back from his face while he spilled what was left of last night’s supper into the toilet.

“That’s it, we’re going back to the infirmary,” Harry said.

“Do not overreact. It is simply the lingering effects of the potion, or the curse, or the combination of the two. It will pass. Besides, I am sure Poppy has better things to do on Christmas Day than hold me down just to tell me there is nothing the matter.”

“But you don’t know there’s nothing the matter,” Harry insisted.

“Yes, I do. She said the antidote had completely counteracted the poison.”

“But what if Malfoy used a mixture of more than one, and the others are still poisoning you! You won’t know until you let her check you over.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest and stood there glaring at him. It was actually somewhat menacing—clearly, they had been spending too much time together.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Oh, very well.”

He had hoped that, what with it being Christmas, when they got to the hospital wing they wouldn’t be able to find Poppy, and Harry would change his mind. He should have known better—his luck had never been that good. Just as he was about to open the door to the infirmary, Pomona Sprout came bustling out. 

“Oh, hello dears. _Ah-choo!_ Happy Christmas.” She appeared to have contracted a case of Wizard’s Flu and they gave her a wide berth.

There was nothing for it now—Poppy had already spotted him through the open door.

“Well, don’t just stand there all day,” she ordered.

She directed Snape to what was quickly becoming his ‘usual bed’—he shuddered at the thought—and stood there looking at him and tapping her foot.

“Well? What seems to be the problem now?”

“Nothing—Harry overreacted to a mild case of indigestion. If you could reassure him that I am not dying, we will be on our way and leave you to your holiday plans,” he proposed.

From her look, he knew that she knew that he did not care one jot about her holiday plans. So much for the easy way out.

“Look, if you could just cast a quick General Diagnosis Charm, we can _both_ get back to what we were doing.”

“I shall,” she said, “But not because you suggested it, mind. _Aegretudo revelio_.”

They waited for a couple of minutes while she stood with her wand pointed toward Snape’s heart, which made him feel distinctly uneasy. Finally, a small salmon-coloured light began to glow midway between her wand tip and Snape’s chest.

“So what does salmon mean, then?” Snape asked. “Indigestion, I suppose. Or perhaps I have a bit of a headache?”

Poppy shook her head and pursed her lips. “No—it means you’re pregnant.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

“I beg your pardon?” Snape asked.

“I said you’re pregnant.”

More silence.

“But, but that can’t be!” he said.

Harry nodded. “He’s right, we never…I mean we always…except the once…oh Merlin, the day she released you!”

Snape remembered it well. 

“Harry, don’t tell me you did not…Did you cast a contraception charm that night?”

“Of course not! I didn’t even know how—that was always…your department, you know? This isn’t _my_ fault!” Harry asked, clearly distraught.

Snape frowned. He could not figure out why Harry was so upset. Hadn’t Harry said he had always wanted children? Did he want to have children, just not with him? Did the thought of the physical manifestation of their intimacy disgust him? Did he fear that Snape would use the situation to tie him down, to trap him forever?

Did he think Snape would make a bad father?

Snape suppressed a shudder and took a deep breath. “You told me…you said you wanted children. More than anything.”

“I did. I _do_.”

“Just not mine,” Snape supplied.

Harry’s eyes were as big as a house elf’s. “What! No, that isn’t what I meant. I think our children would be the brightest, most beautiful, best loved children in the world. It’s just, do you remember? You said, ‘I would not be averse to the idea.’ I didn’t think you wanted it. I thought you were mad at me.”

Snape took his hand. “Harry, I do want this. I do. I think…I think this may be the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Harry smiled and kissed Snape’s forehead. “Me too,” he said, resting his hand on Snape’s abdomen.

Snape once again felt a tight, hot knot form in his chest. But this time he knew exactly what it was.

“I love you, Harry.”


	40. Epilogue - Eight Years Later (cheesy title: Dreams Come True)

Snape wandered idly through the shop, wondering just how long this was going to take. It already felt like they had been there for days, and Harry was showing no sign of wanting to leave.

Or at least he hadn’t the last time Snape saw him. The shop was not overly large, but it was quite overfilled, making it difficult to keep track of people.

Just then, Snape heard Harry’s voice and started toward it.

“I don’t know,” Harry was saying, “Do you have it in any other colours?”

Snape leaned around a tall display cabinet to see Harry running his hand over a deep red sofa.

“Yes indeed, Mr. Potter. It also comes in blue, green, and dragon leather,” the salesperson informed him.

Harry made a face. “Why don’t you show me what else you’ve got.” Then he caught sight of Snape and stepped over. 

“There you are,” Harry said.

“Here I am,” he answered and unconsciously raised a hand to Harry’s cheek.

Harry leaned into the touch. “You haven’t been very helpful, you know. You could pick out _something_.” He gestured toward the couch behind him. “Do you like it?”

Snape had no interest in picking out couch fabrics or anything else, rolled his eyes to indicate as much, and wandered away again.

“Ah, Mr. Snape!” another salesperson said. The wretched shop seemed to be crawling with them. “Shopping for home furnishings? I’d heard you recently bought a house. An honor to have you in the shop, sir.”

“A cottage, actually,” Snape said, examining an expensive table lamp encrusted with what looked like sparkling yellowish diamonds. Were those crystallized thestral tears? It would look nice in his study, and maybe Harry would stop pestering him about not picking out anything.

“Pardon me, Mr. Snape?”

He looked up at the salesperson. “I said we bought a cottage, not a house.”

“Ah, right you are. Whereabouts is it?”

“Somewhere no one will ever find it,” Snape replied coldly, then pointed at the lamp. “Wrap it up.”

The salesperson looked cowed. “Right then, Mr. Snape. Is there, ah, anything else I can help you with?”

Before he could answer, he heard Harry’s voice again. 

“Oi! Didn’t I tell you no running around in here? Come back here, you little monster!”

Snape looked to his left and saw the blurred form of a seven-year-old girl streak by, closely followed by Harry. Snape moved quickly in the opposite direction—he knew if Harry spotted him, he would be charged with keeping track of her while Harry finished shopping. He may have been the holy terror of Hogwarts right up until his retirement last term, but he was notoriously reluctant to discipline his own.

After a few random circuits around the shop, Snape found himself in front of a wall completely covered with windows, each with a different set of curtains framing it. He wondered if Harry had already picked out curtains.

He surveyed the numerous variations, and one set in particular caught his eye. He was utterly transfixed and stood there staring.

“Severus! Severus, are you listening?”

He turned to see Harry behind him with their three-year-old son on his hip, holding their daughter tightly by the hand. She pulled out of his grip and ran over to Snape.

“Daddy!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his hips.

He looked down and ran his fingers through her messy black hair. “Have you been misbehaving?” he asked.

She bit her lip and shook her head ‘no’, but there was mischief in those hazel eyes.

He smiled. “No, I thought not.”

Harry spoke up. “I think I’m about done here. Are you ready to go? It’s still early—we can start looking for supplies for the new shop.” The boy in his arms was tugging on his hair, but he took no notice.

“Not quite,” Snape answered. They weren’t opening the potions shop for another week—choosing letterheads could wait a few minutes. He stepped over to the salesperson in charge of the drapery displays, his daughter still attached to him quite firmly.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Snape?” she asked, and he pointed to the window that had captured his attention.

“I’ll take that one. Have it delivered with whatever else he picked out,” he instructed, gesturing toward Harry.

“ _That_ one?” Harry asked, indicating the correct window.

Snape raised an eyebrow as if to ask, ‘Why, do you have a problem with it?’

“Severus, they’re hideous,” he said, trying to suppress a chuckle. “And so… _bright_. Just where were you planning to hang them?”

“In the breakfast nook, of course,” he answered narrowing his eyes. “I like them.”

Harry schooled his features into a serious expression. “Yes, the breakfast nook. Of course. They’ll be lovely there,” he said, then smiled a truly pleased smile, all trace of mockery gone.

Snape felt a tug on his hand and looked down. “I think they’re pretty. Do you like oranges, Daddy? I like oranges.”


End file.
